


Run for Their Lives

by maddersahatter



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 95,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddersahatter/pseuds/maddersahatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the sequel to High Hopes, Sam Leaps into an Irish Nanny but his charges are kidnapped. He must Run For Their Lives. Story 3 of 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dedication

This story is respectfully dedicated to the memory of

The Late Dennis Wolfberg

Who will live forever in our hearts

As the diligent Gushie


	2. Prologue

"Do you guys _really_ think I've got what it takes to be a winner?"

Sam hedged his bets ever so slightly. He didn't believe in being too dogmatic.

"Trust me honey, I guarantee you're gonna take Gold in the '60 Olympics, or my name's not Bobby Joe Parnell."

"Oh, B-J, you're something else, you really are!" Becky-Lou stood on tiptoe and reached up to cup his face with both hands, tilting it down so that she could reach to plant a passionate kiss on his lips.

"I'd go along with that, _SAM_ ," teased Al, as his friend Leaped…

...The blue haze transported him through time, as it always did, and for a brief moment during transit he was simply himself again. B-J was gone, and only Sam remained – whoever "Sam" really was. He thought it had been Dr Who's observation that 'a Man is the sum of his memories…' If that was indeed the case, then Dr Samuel John Beckett – Scholar of six doctorates, seven degrees and time-traveler extraordinaire – didn't amount to very much.

Already, his memory was Swiss-cheesing again and hard won recollections were fading away, despite his desperate attempts to hold on to them. Yet Sam refused to wallow long in self-pity, even if given the chance. That was not his nature.

In any case, he had no more time for looking backward. He began looking forward – to discover who he would become in this latest Leap, where and when he was 'landing' and, most importantly, why…

…The vast outdoors of Alta were now replaced by a vast indoors. Sam had Leaped in to a huge bedroom that could only be described as opulent. The walls were papered in Regency stripes. The carpet was a deep piled Axminster in a rich - almost regal - shade of purple. The drapes were in matching velvet, and tied back with deep golden silk cords.

Sam was standing by a four-poster bed, curtained all around in finest filigree lace, with silk sheets and a pale lilac floral quilt. Atop the bed rested a brand new suitcase and a battered old brocade carpetbag that looked capacious enough to hold Mary Poppin's hat-stand.

Evidently, his new host was packing – or unpacking – it was impossible to be sure which at this stage. He was holding a folded white cotton garment. He shook it out to reveal a pair of old-fashioned ladies' French knickers, which he couldn't have dropped quicker had they been ablaze. He looked down at himself and made a mental amendment: his 'hostess' was packing.

At least she wears sensible shoes, he noted with relief, his hatred of high heels unabated. Sam was wearing a pair of sturdy, squarish lace-up brown leather brogues, with stout heels no more than one inch thick. Above these the legs were encased in something in excess of forty denier tights – not quite surgical stockings, but the accent was definitely on support rather than glamour. The calf-length skirt consisted of two-inch wide pleats of herringbone tweed in a tasteful shade of deep russet. The upper body bore a slightly paler twin-set comprising V-neck jumper and cardigan in Trevira. The third finger left hand displayed a well-worn gold wedding band.

At this point, Sam noticed an US passport protruding from an outer pocket of the carpetbag, which he snatched up eagerly. Once opened it revealed a head-and-shoulders photograph. Sam studied the round face, subtly made up, silver-grey hair lightly permed, crow's feet etched deeply round blue-grey smiling eyes.

'And who might we be, my dear?' he asked himself as he lowered his eyes to the listed personal details:

NAME:Mary Theresa Bridget McGillicuddy (nee O'Shea)

D.O.B:July 14 1932

PLACE OF BIRTH:Clonakilty, County Cork, Republic of Ireland

NATIONALITY:Citizen of the United States of America

MARITAL STATUS:Widow

OCCUPATION:Nanny/Housekeeper

Sam let the document slip through his fingers. Turning his attention to the fitted wardrobe that filled the wall at the foot of the bed, he faced the full-length mirror as he inevitably did. The figure itself was short and dumpy, the flesh showing it's age in liver spots. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam reflected with mild amusement, 'Dear God, now I'm Mrs. Doubtfire!'

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam surmised that he was in a grand hotel somewhere.

Since there appeared to be no immediate crisis to avert, he decided he needed to know whether he was going or coming before he moved any more clothes. He wandered around the room, looking in the closet and on the kidney shaped dresser where a huge triple mirror was framed in ornate gilt. A clean hairbrush and fine-toothed comb had been placed precisely at the centre of the lace-edged linen runner on the highly polished glass top. Various items of make-up were lined up on each side, with bottles of perfume and cans of hair spray - all very neat and orderly.

"A place for everyt'ing and everyt'ing in its place." Sam observed aloud, nodding his head in approbation. He caught himself looking wide-eyed at his reflection, his expression quizzical.

The question was plain, 'Did I say that?!'

For the voice when he spoke had been thick with Mary's Irish accent, and sounded alien to Sam's ears. He often felt a strong influence from those he'd traded places with, and it seemed that this time Mary's input was going to be marked. He would have to be prepared to put up with some heavy-duty teasing from Al on this one.

"Don't stop, Nanny. Sing us some more."

The voice of a young girl calling from the next room shook him out of his reverie. Without conscious thought he launched into _Danny Boy_. He suddenly became aware that the tune had been buzzing through his head since the moment he'd arrived: another legacy from Mary's brainwaves. As he sang he half expected to hear Al trying to harmonize, and he looked around for some sign of his friend.

This was all too ordinary and innocent.

Sam was not in the habit of Leaping into people just to sort out which clothes they should pack. And the more normal things appeared at the start, the weirder they usually became.

He relied on Al's knowledge from the future to put him on the right track and see him through to the finish line. He'd found out _who_ he was, but he needed to know the _where_ , the _when_ and the _why_.

But Al was nowhere in sight.

'Oh well, at least I don't have to listen to his singing,' mused Sam as he sang, not unduly concerned. Al had many considerable talents, but he could scarcely be classed as one of Euterpe's star pupils. In fact, he had a voice like a corncrake.

Sam, on the other hand, was a sweet supple tenor, whose voice had tremendous power and range, and who sang with great feeling, sincerity and conviction. Not that he realized what a special voice he had. He sang simply because he loved to sing, because it made him feel good, and because he enjoyed the songs. He never fully appreciated what profound pleasure he gave to those privileged to hear him.

Only now, of course, his new charge was not hearing _him_. To the girl who'd requested an encore, he sang with Mary McGillicuddy's familiar contralto, and she hummed along contentedly, her own voice untrained but easy on the ear.

Sam smiled to himself. As Leaps went, this one was going pretty well, thank you. 'And I don't even need a barrel-load of latex to keep up the masquerade!' he thought whimsically.

Resuming his examination of the room, Sam found himself at the expansive double-glazed windows, and looked out. They were pent-house high, the people and traffic below like toys in the distance.

The traffic…?

Sam blinked and looked again, doubting his 20-20 vision. Away to his right was a huge open space - parkland, with trees turned red and brown, or bare (The Fall!) and flower beds and grassland, where people were walking dogs or jogging or pushing baby-buggies. But directly below him a road curved round to his left, and cars were milling to and fro – strange cars with their drivers sitting on the right. Cars driving on the **wrong** side of the road!

"Saints preserve us! Where on God's green eart' am Oi?" he gasped.

Only rarely had his Leaps taken him outside the United States, and without exception- so far as he could recall – the experience had always been somewhat traumatic.

There was Vietnam, of course, and the joy of saving Tom marred by the death of Maggie and his failure to liberate Al. Then he'd been to Russia, or so he thought, but that multi-Leap had been so chaotic and so alarming that he preferred _not_ to remember the details. And he believed he'd been to England once. Yes: a big old house, and a storm, and moonlight, and a dog, and blood and…

Enough of that! Bizarre didn't begin to describe that one.

Sam looked out of the window again, subconsciously gripping the velvet drape with one hand. He studied the road again, following its course as far as the viewing frame permitted. No intersections, only a huge roundabout choked with cars; though not the familiar Dodges and Buicks and Chevrolets and Trans Ams, but rather a baffling array of strange European and British makes – Citröen, Renault, Skoda, Vauxhall, Austin, Rover – he couldn't put names to them all.

The license plates were alien too; those he could read were a mix of numbers and letters. The complex database he called a brain kicked in – this _was_ England again, and the letters represented year of registration. He scanned the vehicles for ones that looked new and did some hasty calculations. Mostly D's and E's, a few F's. That put him somewhere in the late eighties. His trepidation turned to satisfaction that he was solving so much of the puzzle so quickly, and independently. He enjoyed wiping the smug look off Al's face when he could tell his friend how much he already knew.

Below him, a horn blared impatiently.

A red, double-decker bus!

London then. Better and better.

But why?

He had a feeling the answer to that one was not going to land in his lap quite so obligingly, but undaunted, he turned to explore the rest of the hotel suite, and meet the owner of the sweet young voice he'd heard.

Passing through the bedroom door, he entered the communal area, which resembled the drawing room of a stately home. Modern appliances were couched in the guise of old-fashioned splendor – the electric light was provided by a myriad of tiny bulbs hidden within a delicate crystal chandelier. The television was housed in a huge walnut veneered cabinet, and was revealed by opening two heavy doors with brass handles polished to gleaming perfection. The telephone: whilst fully functioning push-button convenience in reality – was in appearance an antique bone and cradle affair in ebony and gold, with a protruding mouthpiece. The color scheme in here was green and gold – the deep-pile carpet a lawn of lush verdant grass. Embossed walls were bedecked with landscapes and countryside scenes in wide gilt frames – expensive prints it would have taken an expert to tell from the originals – featuring such classics as The Monarch of the Glen. They lent the inner city abode a distinctly rural feel, and added to the overall impression of spaciousness.

Blossoming in the centre of the room, in splendid isolation, were enough sofas and easy chairs to accommodate a baseball team, while a bar occupied the far left-hand corner of the room. Behind the main door was a large well-stocked bureau, the wood highly varnished but still managing to look centuries old. Anyone wishing to avail themselves of this writing desk – though the dense green blotter cried out for a quill and ink, and scoffed at the idea of merely scribbling postcards home – could sit in elegant comfort on the well padded, beautifully carved Queen Anne chair. And for those who preferred more old-world pastimes than the anachronism of the TV, beyond the French windows leading to the balcony the far right-hand corner housed a glorious baby grand. The only thing the place lacked was further occupants, and Sam knew, deep down, that he should be searching the remaining bedrooms and getting acquainted, but he gravitated towards the piano, drawn by an irresistible urge to play. Seating himself on the bench, he opened the lid and let his fingers run idly over the keys while he got the feel of the instrument. As he'd expected it had a lovely mellow tone and was obviously tuned and cared-for at frequent, regular intervals. This time, it was not Mary's preference that dictated his choice of song, but rather Sam's own long-standing fondness for show tunes, coupled; it seemed, with a guilty conscience at his self-indulgence. For when his random tinkling of the ivories developed itself into recognizable musical phrases, the tune he played turned out to be "Getting to know you".

"No fair, Nanny. You've been practicing without me."

Sam started and looked up, his fingers frozen on the keys. The same sweet young voice now had a sweet young face as a girl - some eight or nine years old - came bounding into the room from the bedroom adjacent to the one Sam had recently vacated.

She was not overly tall, about one hundred and twenty centimeters, and slender, dressed in a pale grey tracksuit with a bold red stripe down one side, and white sneakers. Her light brown, thick hair was un-parted and cropped short in a boyish style. Her eyes were cornflower blue and captivating.

As Sam smiled at her, she trotted across the room and sat down beside him on the stool. It would appear that these two were in the habit of sharing piano lessons. The way the girl snuggled up to him suggested that they enjoyed a very special, close relationship.

Mary McGillicuddy was not merely an employee; she was more like one of the family.

The girl looked up at Sam, and then cast her eyes over the piano, putting out one hand to touch it tentatively.

"Isn't it beautiful, Nanny?" she breathed. "May I play it? Please?"

She looked up at him again, with pleading puppy-dog eyes, and Sam melted.

"Go ahead, poppet."

She played haltingly at first, as if in awe of the instrument and unsure of her ability, but then she relaxed into it. She was not a complete novice by any means, though still at the stage of fairly simple tunes. Her selection was Kum Baya and she sang along, much to Sam's delight. She had the voice of an angel, and such simple pleasures put him in heaven. He joined in, and it felt natural and right for him to be here. So he relaxed too, and completely forgot to worry what was keeping Al, and which wrong he was here to put right.

Gradually, he became aware of a third voice drifting in from the bedroom across the lounge. It was faint, almost apologetic, and most definitely very young. His companion had a little sister!

This knowledge re-introduced the slightest note of apprehension. How old was she? Anything under five years and the child would know he was not the real Mary. Toddler angst at being confronted by a strange man wearing a familiar person's clothes was one of the trickiest obstacles he'd had to overcome on these missions. He tried to remember how he had pacified such frightened children on previous occasions, but before he had time to dwell on it, the girl in question assuaged his fears.

Her entrance as they finished their duet was even more dramatic than her sister's had been. She burst into the room and proceeded to cross the floor in a series of cartwheels and tumbles such as Olga Korbutt would have been proud of, culminating in almost perfect splits. Sam was impressed and burst into spontaneous applause, but then felt obliged to admonish: "Oi'm not sure you should be doin' that in here!"

This younger sibling looked to be around six or seven, (safe from detection!). She too was attired in a grey jogging suit, only this time the stripe was bright banana-skin yellow. She was only an inch or so shorter than her sister, and equally slender. Her face was more rounded and she had an impish grin. Identical cornflower eyes bore testimony to their shared parentage, although her hair was far blonder and finer. She wore it long, with a fringe, and parted down the middle into two neat plaits tied off with yellow ribbons.

"I've finished _my_ unpacking, Nanny," she pronounced - her superior tone clearly indicating that, while she didn't want to snitch on her sister, that particular state of affairs was not universal. Sam smiled at her guiltily, remembering the luggage awaiting his attention in Mary's bedroom.

"Good girl," he commended, standing up purposefully, "Let me see."

It was time to take up the duties of the menopausal matron he was impersonating, and start behaving like a Nanny – whatever that meant.

It being late in the year, the evening was drawing in, making it too dark to conduct his examination without benefit of artificial light. He flicked the switch as he entered their bedroom and then closed the drapes against the gathering night.

Having inspected the little one's possessions, all put away in apple-pie order, and having praised her for her efforts, Sam turned his attention to the cases on the older girl's bed. The room they were sharing was strawberries-and-cream, young and fresh and feminine just like its occupants. The twin beds were again four-posters, with lace curtains surrounding soft pink covers.

Sam opened up the closet and helped the child to put away a mixture of tracksuits, assorted jersey dresses and some delightful party gowns: something for any and every occasion. When they had almost reached the bottom, the girl suddenly made a lunge for her suitcase and tried to stop Sam from lifting out a full length royal blue velvet dress, with a white lace collar and a pale blue satin sash. It was covered with a transparent plastic protector and was already on a hanger. This behavior seemed way out of character, even considering that Sam had only known the girl for such a short time, and he wondered what guilty secret she was trying to protect.

"What's the matter, Princess? Have you got it dirty and not told your old Nanny, eh?" the form of address came naturally to his lips, and he blessed Mary's subconscious prompting, which enabled him to converse intimately without giving away the fact that he had not yet ascertained either of their names.

"Come on, show me. Oi promise Oi'll not be cross."

The girl lowered her eyes and bit her lip, as if unsure whether to trust this last assurance. Her hand hesitated on the dress a moment longer, until Sam gave her an encouraging smile.

"Don't be angry with me, Nanny. I know you told me not to bring it, but I couldn't bear to leave it behind. You won't let Daddy find it, will you? You will help me hide it. Please say you will, Nanny."

She fumbled underneath the dress and pulled out a thin, hardback book around twenty by thirty centimeters. On the front cover was a strange illustration of a hill overlooking a village in the distance – on which stood a peculiar twisted tree bearing acorns and entangled with a wild dog rose. A crescent moon nestled in the unnatural branches and beneath it ran a boy in a weird sort of romper suit – green and yellow stripes at the top, the lower half being blue and emblazoned with gold stars. Sam couldn't help thinking it was too way out even for his friend Al to wear. The boy carried a hare's head mask on a pole before him, with pink ribbons billowing out on either side. The picture was at once both ordinary and strangely surreal, and struck a chord of familiarity in Sam, as did the title 'MASQUERADE', the irony of which, given his present circumstances, did not escape him. Had Dr Beckett read this book, once upon a future time? He wasn't sure.

Sam held out his hand for the book, which the girl passed to him almost reverently. He couldn't imagine why this innocent looking object should be contraband. It was not as if she were a teenage boy being caught red-handed with a well-thumbed copy of Playboy magazine. What sort of centre-fold could this innocuous work conceal? As he took it, Sam sat down on the bed, and by silent assent, both girls sat with him, flanking him on either side.

The book was unblemished, in excellent condition, yet it did not smell or feel new. It was undoubtedly a treasured possession, but why a surreptitious one? Turning it over Sam examined the back cover and knew with a sudden rush of awareness that he had indeed encountered this story before. Beneath a picture of an intricately carved gold, bejeweled hare, the blurb detailed the history of the piece:

" _Somewhere in Great Britain_ ," Sam read aloud, " _well out of range of metal detectors, lies buried the extraordinary piece of jewellery pictured above. It was fashioned by Kit Williams_ (the author of the book, Sam observed) _out of 18-carat gold and dazzlingly adorned with precious stones; ruby, moonstone, citrines, turquoise, mother of pearl and a rare compound called_ faience, _used by the ancient Egyptians to grace the Pharaohs_."

Sam had seen as much on more than one archaeological dig.

The item itself was not to Sam's taste, being rather too brash and gaudy, but he could admire the workmanship that had created it. He read on:

" _The precise location of this buried treasure may be discovered within the pages of MASQUERADE which are themselves overflowing with riddles and puzzles the reader will delight in unmasking_."

Now, Sam recalled how someone had bought him this book as a gift, knowing how he loved conundrums. He'd solved a good many of the clues too, before loftier problems had demanded his undivided attention. He had never been a fanatical searcher, but he vaguely remembered that people from as far afield as Australia and Acapulco had traveled to the UK in hopes of digging up the hare. It had fired the imagination of innumerable people, and generated interest long after it was found, since the winner of the prize surrounded himself in mystery by refusing to be named. Sam finished reading the cover:

" _Only one other person, whose identity is known to the publisher, was witness to the secret burial and as the author tantalisingly reveals, the treasure is as likely to be found by a bright child of ten with an understanding of language, simple mathematics and astronomy, as it is to be found by an Oxford don_."

Perhaps this was it. Maybe he was here to help the girl find the hare. He was about to embark on a treasure hunt, and his trusty sidekick Al could be relied upon to 'remind' him where it would lead.

_If_ he ever bothered to turn up.

Sam spared a fleeting thought to wonder why his friend was taking so long to put in an appearance, but the thought did not trouble him. He vaguely recalled having discussed Al taking the opportunity to go on a trip while Sam was between Leaps, but couldn't quite grasp the details. His friend deserved a holiday, so he'd be patient.

Two eager faces looked up at him expectantly and then the elder girl whispered conspiratorially "What time will Daddy be back?"

"Oi'm not sure," answered Sam truthfully, looking over his shoulder at the door, as if he, too, feared discovery in this inexplicably elicit activity. Opening the book, he saw that it had been inscribed on the inner cover:

**To my darling wife, Rachel, in celebration of the first anniversary of the birth of our beloved daughter Shelley-Anne, who came into the world on the same day as this hare was buried – 8.8.79.** (She shared his birthday!) **There is no contest as to which is the rarest and most valuable of these two treasures.**

**All my love, today and always**

**Your adoring husband,**

**Lyle**

More clues for Sherlock Beckett; without the aid of a magnifying glass. The older girl must surely be Shelley-Anne.

Poor kids. It was starting to look as if their parents were in the throes of a messy divorce, and this volume was a too painful reminder of good love gone bad. Though how on earth any mother could walk out on two such charming daughters was beyond his imagining.

Sam reminded himself firmly not to be so quick to judge. He had no idea what may have gone on between these two. Just because his parents seemed to him to be the model couple didn't mean that everyone had the secret of happy ever after, till death do them part. He had no right to try apportioning blame.

One thing was sure. For whatever reasons, this simple little book evoked strong emotions in this family. Currently, it seemed, the reaction was at once intense anger from their father – thus the need to keep its presence secret from him – and conversely great comfort for the children, a way they could feel close to their absent mother.

Okay, so maybe he was going to have to find the treasure _and_ reconcile the warring couple. No sweat. Six impossible things rounded off by breakfast at Milliways.

All in a day's work for a Leaper.

Meantime, he whiled away a pleasant couple of hours in sharing the book with the girls, finding out what they had worked out already, and steering them towards some of the solutions that came back to him as he read and studied the pictures. When they had exhausted this topic, Sam glanced at the small gold watch on his left wrist, which looked to have been reset to London time.

Seventeen minutes to six.

"Anybody hungry?" he asked, knowing he was absolutely ravenous himself.

Breakfast in Utah was but a distant memory, and he'd managed to miss the in-flight lunch by virtue of his unorthodox travel arrangements. They adjourned to the sitting room, where Sam identified their location as the Balmoral Suite by means of the key ring on the writing desk. Then he lifted the phone to call room service.

"What'll it be, ladies?"

"Hamburger and fries!" requested the girls in unison.

"Oh, come on now," he chided, "Dis is a high class hotel, not McDonalds!" He ordered chicken pilaf and Black Forest Gateau from the selection on offer and told them they'd enjoy it just as much, with an "or else" sort of edge to his voice, such as was befitting the authority figure in the group.

"Can we watch television?" asked the younger girl, opening the cabinet before throwing herself into an armchair, which practically swallowed her up.

"Oh, Tori, you'll get square eyes, Oi swear you will!" countered Shelley-Anne, in a tone that was clearly meant as an impersonation of Mary.

Sam laughed. "Are you after taking over my job, young lady?" he asked her, crossing the room to switch on the set, it having occurred to him that he could possibly glean more detailed information about the Time he was re-living from a news bulletin. The girls took an immediate interest in the children's serial that was in progress, it being radically different from their normal fare back home. Sam was less intrigued, and decided that while he was waiting for the food to arrive, duty called in the shape of a voluminous carpetbag.

By this time, he had stopped even anticipating Al's arrival, dismissed with a swish of closing curtains.

Now that he knew what he was about, Sam made short work of the task in hand. As he unpacked, he examined Mary's possessions for indications as to her personality. Unfortunately for Sam, she was clearly one of the old-school - not one single pair of slacks in this lady's wardrobe, only practical, rather unglamorous skirts and perfectly coordinating twin sets for day wear, along with a few elegant full length evening gowns such as might be worn to the Opera.

All very formal and straight laced.

"Not exactly a swinger, are we, Mary?" commented Sam to the lady in the mirror, holding up a rather dowdy coffee colored quilted dressing gown, which did not flatter the figure he tried it against in the slightest. "Still, you're a Nanny, not an au pair, so you are, t'anks be t'God."

The last thing Sam needed was to be chased around a hotel suite by an amorous, divorced, sex-starved employer after a bit of extra-marital conviviality. Buddy Wright had subjected him to enough of that to last him a hundred lifetimes. No, if he had to be a female impersonator, he found the role of matriarch sat far more comfortably on his shoulders than that of femme fatale. He'd take Mary McGillicuddy over Mata Hari any day!

A discreet knocking announced that dinner was served, and Doctor Beckett abandoned his solitary fashion show in favor of sustenance. As he passed from the bedroom to the external door, the television announced that at seven thirty that same evening, Sylvester McCoy would be starring in part two of **Silver Nemesis** , the twenty-fifth anniversary edition of ' _Doctor Who'_.

Both girls bounced up and down in their seats in excitement, and begged Mary, "Oh, please Nanny, can we watch it? Can we wait up for Daddy and watch it?"

"Oi don't know about that," replied Sam cautiously, not knowing what time they normally went to bed, "It's been a long day (he rationalized that this had to be true – allowing for the flight time, it must have been some hours since they left their home State-side and then there was the time differential to consider), and your Da might not get back until _very_ late." For all Sam knew, his employer could be planning to stay out all night.

The girls looked up at him with anxious, expectant faces. He was not sure which activity meant more to them – greeting their father upon his return, or soaking up part of a great British institution, the appeal of which he could well understand, having a penchant for science fiction himself. Sam capitulated, stating his terms.

"All right, poppets. If ya eat all yer dinners and get ready for bed, ya can stay up until Dr Who is over. But if your Da is not back by then, it's off to bed wit' ya and no arguments."

"Yes, Nanny. Of course, Nanny," they chorused obediently. "Thank you, Nanny."

'Three bags full, Nanny,' thought Sam, as he tipped the waiter and wheeled in the trolley laden with deliciously aromatic provisions.

They all settled down in front of the set to eat and tucked in with alacrity, while Sam caught up with the international and local news, as read by one Nicholas Witchell and some other guy whose name he didn't catch.

The date, he was now able to ascertain, was Wednesday November 30th 1988, and he learned again that:

" _Bhutto takes seat in Pakistan Assembly_ …"

'She showed promise, what became of her?' Sam wondered to himself, but could not recall.

Then:

" _US veto on Arafat sparks row in UN…Britain alone abstained_ …"

At which Sam thought 'Trust the Brits to sit on the fence, they're good at that.'

He looked across to see the girls devouring their meals with a fervor that matched his own. It tasted as good as it smelt.

"Now isn't dis better dan burgers and fries?" he enquired of them.

-"You betcha!"

-"Sure is!" they conceded between mouthfuls, with a twinkle in their eyes.

'This job's a snap' Sam decided. If he had bothered to give it a moment's consideration he would undoubtedly have concluded that Al was staying away simply because he wasn't needed on this one. But he didn't even stop to spare it a thought. He felt comfortable and confident.

He should have known better.

His ears pricked up as the TV proclaimed:

" _AIDS could kill 17,000 by 1992_ …"

'And then some,' he thought, 'and it would have been higher still if they hadn't started screening donors to prevent infection through transfusions.' His Swiss-cheesed brain forgot that once upon a Leap it had been _his_ suggestion that brought this change about.

By the time the screen was showing scenes of two trains colliding in Newcastle, the viewers were on to dessert.

His photographic memory kicked in, unpredictable as ever; to remind Sam that this was just a taste of things to come. On December twelfth 1988, less than two weeks hence, a far worse rail disaster would hit the British nation. In fact the worst in twenty years - when three trains piled into each other just outside Clapham Junction, killing thirty odd people and injuring over a hundred more.

Sam gasped. Could he prevent that carnage? Surely, he had to try?

Perhaps this was his true mission. As a devout humanitarian, Dr Beckett could not abide the thought of anything bad happening to anyone – particularly when innocent people met with tragic deaths in senseless accidents. So, if there were the remotest chance that he could save lives, or alleviate suffering, he would Leap in with both feet.

Of course, he didn't have the slightest idea how he might achieve such a miracle. If he tried to warn the Authorities then he'd probably end up in a padded cell.

Or, given his current unmistakable accent, locked up as an IRA terrorist. However he tackled it, he must make sure that he did not imperil his new wards in the process. Still, there was plenty of time to work out the details.

As promised, by seven thirty the girls were ready for bed. Faces washed; hair and teeth brushed. Each wore a pair of fleecy lined pajamas – Shelley's in plain red, Tori's in lemon yellow with a large Winnie the Pooh motif on the front. They had matching slippers on their feet, and warm furry dressing gowns flapped out behind them like capes as they ran back in, just as the opening credits rolled. When a digitized Doctor winked at them, they both winked back, giggling. Sam smiled indulgently, and settled on the couch with one girl on either side, snuggling up to him.

While the Germans and Lady Peinforte fought the Cybermen, the sisters debated whether the silver robo-men or the Daleks made the best enemy for the Doctor.

Sam declined to take sides, but listened to their opinions with interest, at the same time trying to follow the plot on the screen.

The German soldier was asking Herr Florres the reason for the gold dust:  
" _For eventualities_."

"That sounds like you and your bottomless carpet-bag, Nanny!" teased Shelley. "Have you got any gold-dust in there?"

"Would that Oi had, Princess," replied 'Mary.' "Me own little pot o' gold from the end of the rainbow, eh?" They laughed softly together, and turned their attention back to the set, groaning at the Doctor's pun about "Jam" sessions, and crying "serves them right" to the two hooligans who'd been debagged and strung upside down from a tree for accosting Lady Peinforte.

Sam felt Tori shudder at the 'bear' noises, and drew her closer to him, protectively, relishing the familial closeness, even if he was not really family.

Tori relaxed when the llamas appeared and declared, "Ooh, aren't they lovely? Could we go to the Safari Park and see them, while we're here? Please, Nanny, say we can."

Those irresistible puppy-dog eyes looked pleadingly up at Sam again. Why did he get the feeling that these two could twist Mary round their little fingers? Or that he wasn't immune to them either. He hadn't found an itinerary in the well-stocked carpetbag, so he hedged, "We'll see what we can arrange, if you're good, pumpkin." Tenderly stroking the golden tresses, now flowing loose around her shoulders, Sam thought wistfully of how it might feel to have daughters of his own.

The Doctor and Ace were hiding in the trees, studying the Cybership.

" _I don't suppose you've completely ignored my instructions and secretly prepared any Nitro 9, have you?"_

" _What if I had?"_

" _Then naturally, you wouldn't do anything so insanely dangerous as to carry it around with you, would you?"_

" _Of course not. I'm a good girl. I do what I'm told."_

" _Excellent. Blow up that vehicle._ "

Sam smiled at the exchange, appreciating the humor.

Tori's young mind was too literal. "She's _not_ a good girl really, Nanny. _She's_ naughty," the moon-faced maiden pronounced as the ship exploded. "Not like _us_ ," she added virtuously.

"Careful, sweetpea," Sam admonished, "yer halo will be getting too tight for ya."

He tousled her hair and planted a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

He was really falling naturally into this new role, and these girls were a delight. He could have been saddled with a couple of brats like the ones who'd made Hulk Hogan's life a misery in _Mr. Nanny_. (Now _there_ was a comparison. Sam decided there and then that he would draw the line at wearing a pink tutu!)

Things were hotting up on the screen, building towards the end of episode climax. Richard was in a panic that the Cybermen would catch them.

" _Not for nothing did I design my own tomb. 'Death is bvt a door.' I always knew I'd cheat it._ " Lady P pushed a button on the tomb to release a door catch.

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door to the hotel suite, making them all jump.

"Is that Daddy?" Tori bounced to her feet.

Sam checked his watch. Seven fifty-two.

"I doubt it, pumpkin. He'll have his own key," reasoned Sam, who - irrationally, illogically as he later realized - assumed it to be room service come to collect the food trolley. Hindsight told him that hotels didn't operate that way. He should have left it outside to be collected unobtrusively at a later stage with the shoes to be shined. But at the time his mind was elsewhere, and he got up to answer the door with one eye still on the TV over his shoulder.

'Just as it was getting to the interesting bit,' he thought, as the statue stirred and prepared to come to life. 'Still, never mind, I _have_ seen it before.'

When he opened the door, he saw, as he'd fully expected, a waiter in a crisp white uniform, down to the spotless gloves.

Beyond him, passing slowly down the corridor, a flaxen-headed chambermaid pushed a laundry cart, with gloved hands.

Afterwards - a long time afterwards - Sam remembered thinking that the waiter did not fit the image of an employee in an exclusive hotel; at least not one above the rank of janitor. His black hair was long and unkempt, as was his beard. His skin had an orange-peel texture. The right cheekbone had a swelling from an old break injury. Likewise, Sam later recalled that he had noticed the chambermaid's flesh tone did not suggest blonde hair. He had debated momentarily whether it was peroxide or a wig, and decided that the whole piece was far too perfect to be in any way natural.

Like the use of gloves.

All these observations had been made in a split second. But before he could register the alarm bells which had immediately begun to ring in his brain, the man shoved a large white cloth in his face, steeped in chloroform, whilst simultaneously grabbing the back of his head in a vice-like grip. At that moment, all Sam's attention focused on the struggle to remain conscious. To continue breathing without inhaling the noxious vapors which sought to rob him of his senses.

His assailant advanced on him, pushing him roughly backwards, forcing him to retreat into the room. The chambermaid followed, glancing furtively up and down the corridor to see if the old girl's struggles had attracted any unwelcome attention, and then kicking the door shut behind them.

She brushed past her partner-in-crime, wheeling the cart in front of her.

'To hide the stolen goods.' Sam guessed, amid his desperate attempts to hold on to wakefulness. He was clawing one-handed at the huge hand that smothered his face, his other arm by now being pinned painfully behind his back.

The 'waiter' had moved around to the rear, and was trying to wrestle 'Mary' into submission. He lifted Sam bodily off his feet and practically hurled him to the floor, then flung himself on top of the old lady and renewed his assault with the chloroform before she could scramble back to her feet to raise the alarm.

Shelley screamed and held on to her sister, both too scared to move, as Sam thrashed about in self-defense.

"Feisty old trout, in't she?" observed the woman in a tone that mixed surprise with something akin to admiration. She advanced on the terrified children with a malicious gleam in her eye, pulling a bottle out from her apron pocket and pouring a colorless liquid onto a napkin at arm's length.

"Time you two were asleep," she chastised.

Sam's increasingly befuddled brain registered the threat to the girls and he redoubled his efforts.

"You said she'd be out like a light in seconds," complained Sam's assailant, grunting as he sought to subdue his uncooperative prey.

A well-aimed kick got the thug off him at last and Sam scrambled, gasping, to his feet, leaving the man bent over and groaning.

"Quit griping and get 'er sorted." Both villains spoke with British accents, in a mild barely discernible regional dialect; so subtle as to be almost an absence of accent altogether.

Fuzzy headed and off-balance; Sam staggered towards the maid, attempting to place himself between her and the sisters. He tried to tell them to run, to get out and find help, but found he was unable to talk coherently. Before he had stumbled halfway to his target, the man behind him recovered himself and grabbed the solid lead crystal paperweight from the writing desk.

A dull thud.

Followed by a sharp pain.

For a moment, Sam was witness to the aurora borealis at first hand, wide screen and in extreme close-up. Then a velvety blackness enfolded him and Sam was unconscious even before his limp body had wafted gracefully to the floor like a withered leaf drifting down from a tree on a gentle autumn breeze.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**QUANTUM LEAP HEADQUARTERS**

**STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO**

Sam had been in transit for six days, and Ziggy had still not announced the arrival of a new visitor in the Waiting Room.

Normally, the interval afforded Al a much-needed break to get on with his life and let go of the incredible tension inherent in his enforced role of guardian and guide. It was like a summer vacation after a harrowing semester teaching a class full of wayward pupils. He didn't resent giving Sam constant attention and support – how could he? It was the least he could do for his friend, who always seemed to get the toughest jobs. But it was an awesome responsibility; an extremely stressful occupation, and he found himself relishing those rare occasions when he got to take time out and be relegated to the benches for a while. Sometimes, he wished he could send on a substitute; delegate the task to some subordinate.

Trouble was; it didn't work that way. There had been one Leap, when he'd had to go off site in an emergency and he'd left Gushie to keep tabs on Sam, but it had been a hit-and-miss affair to say the least. The contact with the past had been sketchy, far from satisfactory. Without the neural link between Sam and Al's brainwaves, it had been impossible to get a strong fix, and the drain on Ziggy's energy banks had been prohibitive. It was definitely a last resort rather than an option to be used on a regular basis. This meant that Al was constantly on call, 24-7, expected to drop everything to rush to Sam's side at a moment's notice, day or night – his personal pinnace, permanently at battle stations.

Except between Leaps, when some semblance of normality returned. He still had work to do, of course. Keeping up the pressure on the "powers that be" to provide funding, making sure everyone was pulling their weight, generally overseeing the whole kit and caboodle. Yet that sort of undertaking he could tackle standing on his head with one hand tied behind his back.

Only this time around, it hadn't been quite such a doddle. He'd barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief that Sam had successfully accomplished yet another mission impossible, when he'd been plunged into a new nightmare.

When Sam left Alta, Al had kept his word and had his friend Harry fly him back to Texas, via Israel. Ruthie was making steady progress, but the long-term prognosis was still fairly grim. After a couple of awkward days, they finally stopped re-salting old wounds and by the time Al left again, they'd somehow found a new perspective with which to begin the New Year.

As Sam had predicted, Ruthie knew of the legend of the blue ribbon and Rachel's tomb, and had been both thrilled and pleasantly surprised at the effort Al had gone to in order to procure some for her. It would indeed prove a comfort to her in the difficult times ahead, she told Al, and even made him bend over so she could kiss him in gratitude.

Although neither sought a total reconciliation, and such was beyond all reasonable expectation, they did at least achieve a greater mutual understanding, and parted as friends, taking with them stronger memories of happier times shared. In the bitterness of their breakup, they had somehow forgotten that there  _had_ been good times; reasons they had got together in the first place, as well as reasons they had ultimately parted.

It was a mellower Albert Calavicci who had returned to New Mexico – to be immediately confronted by the cold shoulder from an irate Tina in a fit of jealous pique. Ziggy informed him – since the lady herself refused to speak to him – that Tina was  _not_  prepared to play second fiddle to a whole string of ex-wives.

The computer added her own caustic comment on Ms Martinez-O'Farrell's choice of language.

So, Al had been obliged to endure first the stony silence; then the ritual of all the tedious cajoling; wheedling; flattery; flannel and smoothing of ruffled feathers to convince her she was still  _the_  special one; and finally the withholding of his bedroom privileges until she deemed he had been punished enough.

And all this at the same time as the problems at Project HQ that had summoned him back post haste from Dallas in the first place, and the crisis that now followed.

He'd been more than a little annoyed that they'd deemed it necessary to recall him to deal with the renewed failure of the sewage system. Was he the _only_  one around who could mobilize the troops? He had done so, of course, in pretty short order. All it had taken was a few well-worded threats and the plumbers had forgotten all their qualms about wading through foul smelly outlet tunnels and had tracked down the blockage in less than half a day. Eh voila! No more need for gas masks and air fresheners on full fake-floral power.

He may not be the heaviest of the Project personnel by a long shot – that dubious honor went to Sadie the sanitation operative (why she couldn't just call herself a cleaner and be done with it, he never knew) who must have been at least nineteen stone in her birthday suit (not a pretty sight, he imagined!) – but when it came to throwing his weight around, the Admiral knew just where and how far to pitch it.

That done, it had been:

"Admiral, the catering truck didn't arrive and we're all out of…"

"Director, the Committee are complaining that your report was due two days ago and…"

"Al, you are  _way_  overdue for your annual physical and psychological appraisal…"

" _Admiral, your presence is required in the motor pool immediately…_ " This last had elicited an irritated, "For goodness sake, Zig stop bothering me with trivialities!"

To which Ziggy had calmly replied, " _I_ _ **really**_ _think you should report to the motor pool, Admiral. Gushie has just driven in with a bomb strapped to his chest!"_

  
**Jan 4** **th** **2003**   


**Saturday 14:17**

"Whaaaat?" Al had been sitting at his desk wrestling the usual mountain of paperwork when this particular snippet of information came his way. He stood up as sharply as a raw Ensign caught napping at kit inspection, sending reams of reports fluttering around him like a flock of startled seagulls. Even as he sought a contradiction of what he thought he  _couldn't_  have heard, he was heading for the elevator, which would carry him to ground level, and the area that now demanded his attention.

" _I believe your otic nerves are functioning efficiently, Admiral._ _ **Must**_ _I repeat myself?"_  Ziggy sounded just a trifle impatient.

"Just give me the details, Zig." Al was marching briskly down the corridor, a dozen thoughts racing through his head – evacuation procedures; ways to avoid panic; which personnel could be useful; how the hell he was going to explain to the Committee if one of their own top people blew up the base; what would happen to Sam if he had no Home to come back to…

At that moment Tina accosted him with renewed complaints and accusations.

Less vehement than before – he'd started to break through her hard-done-by shell – but nevertheless still in need of placation.

"Not  _now_ , Tina," he snapped without breaking stride, shocking her into open-mouthed silence and putting their relationship back at least three notches.

" _The Admiral did not mean to be rude_ ," soothed Ziggy, " _he is somewhat preoccupied at present, with a rather grave situation_."

"Unfortunate choice of phrase - given the circumstances," muttered Al, but Tina softened just a little at the computer's tone.

"Anything I can do to help, honey?" the word slipped out unbidden, but she did not retract it.

"When I find out, you'll be the first to know," said Al, his voice matter-of-fact, but not as abrupt as before. "Now, Ziggy, tell me just what in tarnation is going on –  _if_  it's not too much trouble."

Tina had fallen into step beside him, and they now rode the elevator together up to the surface, Al tapping his foot and drumming his fingers on his leg in impatience at the slowness with which it rose. At long last, Ziggy began giving him the required data.

" _I detected the device as soon as the car reached the perimeter, naturally_ ," it was amazing how smug that artificial voice could sound, " _but having identified Gushie as the sole occupant, I decided to allow him to proceed. I have taken the liberty of ordering all the other vehicles to be removed from the vicinity as a precaution. I trust this is acceptable_." It was not a question. Ziggy was fishing for praise, Al realized. At times the hybrid computer could be more temperamental than Tina, and that was no mean feat.

"Good move." Al acknowledged. "Do we have any personnel on site with the expertise to diffuse the damned thing?"

"Diffuse? You mean Gushie's got, like, a  _bomb?!_ " Tina finally caught up with the conversation and grabbed Al's arm, staring at him with wide-eyed incredulity. "Why would  _Gushie_  have a bomb?"

"That's what I intend to find out," her erstwhile lover informed her authoritatively. Somewhere at the back of his mind he found room for a stray thought – 'At least she's touching me again without hitting me. That's a step in the right direction.'

" _According to my records, the person best qualified is Corporal Kincaid, Admiral. I have located him and given him instructions to rendezvous with you at the motor pool."_  Ziggy answered Al's query as if there had been no interruption.

The elevator halted, doors automatically opening. The Admiral immediately got out and headed off, Tina struggling to match his stride.

" _I have scanned the offending object. There is no timer mechanism to worry about, so I suggest that you proceed with extreme caution and refrain from any hasty moves. I calculate a total of ten pounds of high-powered explosive material with the potential to cause considerable damage to thirty two point seven eight percent of the complex, and the total destruction of the closest four point nine three percent. All non-essential personnel have already been evacuated from the danger area on the pretext of conducting a regulation fire drill, organized by Dr Beeks to determine reaction times and responses to stress. It is my analysis that no one suspects that anything untoward is occurring. Given the extremely high degree of risk involved, I recommend that Ms Martinez-O'Farrell does not proceed any further with you, Admiral. I doubt if she would be able to contribute significantly to the success of this undertaking, hence there is no logical reason for her to endanger her life_."

Al stopped in his tracks. He'd been so pleased to have her close and talking to him without berating him for some slight – real or imaginary – that he hadn't considered the fact that he was leading her into a probable death-trap. He turned to face her.

"Ziggy's right Tina. You shouldn't be here. Why don't you go and lend Verbena a hand?" Al's tone was gentle, but with just enough hint of 'don't make me pull rank and order you out' that it left her no room to argue.

In spite of herself, Tina smiled and touched his arm lightly. "Be careful, honey."

Then, not wanting to let him totally off the hook, she added, "I mean I don't want to be the one to have to report back to Weitzman that we've just, like, scraped an ex-Admiral off the motor pool walls. Not to mention calculating the cost of a rebuild."

Al knew Tina was babbling to cover her fear, and his heart leapt. He turned aside so she wouldn't see him color, and told her brusquely that he wouldn't dream of leaving her in charge. He turned back abruptly, pulled her into a tight embrace, which she had neither the time nor the inclination to avoid, and planted a firm, passionate kiss on her unresisting lips. "For luck," he declared. Then he departed, quick march, without a backward glance, and devoted all his concentration to the 'situation' that lay ahead.

The area was almost totally devoid of life, as vast a wasteland as the New Mexican desert that surrounded them. The one oasis was Gushie's blue Ford Probe, parked just inside the entrance, with the windows wound down. The Corporal had not yet arrived.

The Admiral approached the vehicle unwillingly, cautiously, but dutifully, being careful to project an image of calm confidence for Gushie to latch on to. Al's palms were sweating, and it had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

Gushie was sitting bolt upright in the driving seat, his hands still on the steering wheel, the knuckles blanched. He faced directly in front, moving his head neither left nor right. In fact, his whole body was immobile. He could have been a store window mannequin if it were not for the beads of perspiration that trickled over his forehead and down his temples and made his moustache limp and bedraggled. If he had noticed Al's arrival, he did not appear to register it.

He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, his jacket tossed carelessly on the passenger seat. The offending package – dark against his pale cotton top and trousers - bulged out before him like a bittern's chest in full boom.

" _Speak softly, Admiral_ ," advised Ziggy, sotto-voce. " _It would not be wise to startle Gushie at this point."_

Al acknowledged this sagacity with an almost imperceptible nod, which was more than enough for Ziggy. By this time, Al was almost alongside Gushie's vehicle, and wondering how much longer that darned Corporal was going to be.

"Gushie?" inquired the Admiral gently - though the occupant's identity was not seriously in doubt. In that one simple word could be clearly detected a whole range of questions, such as; "Is it really you?" "Are you all right?" (Arguably the most ridiculous question ever posed, since it was reserved for circumstances where a truthful answer was invariably in the negative.) "What the devil is this all about?" "How on earth did you get yourself into this mess?" "What can we do about it?" and so on.

For an interminably long moment, Gushie did not respond, either verbally or with body language. Then at last he blinked. Next, his grip on the steering wheel slackened ever so slightly, before renewing its intensity. After which Gushie chewed on his top lip, making the moustache even limper. His breathing was shallow, as if he feared the rise and fall of his ribcage might be enough to set off the device. He seemed to be weighing up whether or not he dared to speak. His eyes were now focused on Al, although his head had scarcely moved. The expression in his eyes was of sheer terror, mingled with a desperate pleading,

'Help me, do something, get this thing off me!'

" _It is perfectly safe to talk, Gushie_ ," coaxed Ziggy quietly. " _The bomb cannot be triggered vocally, or by the vibrations of your speech. My examination of the device reveals that it can only be set off in one of two ways. It has a pair of large sensors, one horizontal, and the other vertical. The first operates on the spirit level principle and will activate the detonator if the wearer lies down, or is rendered prone due to unconsciousness, or otherwise tilts the indicator too far from its current position. I estimate eighteen degrees, nine minutes to be a reasonable margin of safety. It is therefore imperative that any movement on Gushie's part be carefully thought through and kept to a minimum. The other sensor is basically a thermometer, and will likewise cause the bomb to explode if it registers more than a certain reading. Thus it is essential that Gushie's blood heat be kept within strict parameters. I have lowered the heating in this region of the complex by five point seven-three degrees, and I am continually monitoring it in case a further reduction is required. It is recommended that Gushie attempt to remain calm, as the production of adrenaline associated with panic tends to create an elevated body temperature, as manifested by sweating."_

"Easy for Zig to say, huh?" Al tried to be jocular, but without any real hope of raising a smile. To his surprise, Gushie's mouth did curl up at the edges just a little.

"M-m-m-my th-thoughts exactly, Admiral." His voice was a hoarse whisper as raw fear tightened his throat and robbed his mouth of saliva. Gushie's hands flexed spasmodically again, but he did not let go, clinging to the wheel as if it were a lifebelt, or a security blanket. Now he had found his voice, the words came pouring out in a torrent.

"I-I know I sh-shouldn't have c-come, Admiral, b-but I didn't k-know what else t-to do, who else to t-turn to. I d-don't m-mind t-telling you, I'm utterly t-terrified."

'Who wouldn't be?' thought the Project Coordinator.

"That's all right," Al soothed. He was well trained and well practiced in the art of playing the Calming Influence. "We'll soon sort this out, no sweat." He opted for the tongue in cheek approach again. "Don't worry, it's bound to turn out okay, otherwise Sam would have Leapt in here by now."

"I'm s-sorry, Admiral, but your reassurance has little validity. That eventuality could still occur 'next time around', so to speak. It is of no comfort to me whatsoever at this present moment in time."

Al often thought that Gushie had spent too long locked away with only Ziggy for company. At times his speech could be even more prosaic and pedantic than the computers.

Al tugged at the crisp precise crease that traced a demarcation down the front of his cobalt blue trousers, and then squatted down on his haunches, bringing himself closer to Gushie's level.

His current state of agitation had done nothing to improve the Chief Programmer's halitosis, but Al tried not to flinch. Normally, his dealings with the technician were strictly official; their relationship business-like at all times. Now, Al felt it more appropriate to use a less formal approach. He could tell that Gushie's sanity was a tightrope on which he teetered precariously.

Al wished Verbena were there to handle it. Yet he understood Ziggy's reasoning in deploying her elsewhere. Not only was she there as a smoke-screen, but also, if word got out of the true crisis, there would be pandemonium and Dr Beeks was the only one who would be able to contain the situation. Al knew they both had faith in his ability to handle things here, and he could always send out an SOS for Beek's words of wisdom if the need arose. Ziggy could convey her advice with greater than satellite swiftness.

"What happened, Gush? Who did this to you?" Al asked conversationally, as if he wanted to know something trivial such as how he'd come by a black eye.

Gushie swallowed hard, and for a moment his eyes were unfocused, distant, as he considered the questions, and how best to answer them. When he spoke, it was with a question of his own, "How is your wife, Admiral?"

Al was unprepared for this tack, and had to execute a small bounce to regain his balance. He looked at Gushie with head and eyebrows tilted. Very few people were privy to the real reason for his unscheduled trips to Texas. So far as he was aware, Gushie was not one of them, especially since he'd been home on leave since Sam's Leap out.

"My –  _wife_? You mean my ex-wife, Ruthie?" he breathed.

"Mm-hmm." Gushie confirmed.

"She's uh, doing okay, I guess, since you ask. Off the danger list, but its doubtful if she'll ever dance the Hora again." Al spoke slowly, reluctantly, as if putting the prognosis into words somehow made it too real. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he half stood, then remembered the stakes and backed down again, though he had to know, "Why  **did**  you ask?"

"My cousin Miriam was with B'nai B'rith Women, too." explained Gushie, his tone bitter.

The light of comprehension dawned in Al's eyes as he began to make the connections. He noted in passing that Gushie used the organization's original name, just as he tended to.

"In fact she and your wife were friends, I understand."

Al looked surprised at that, and a little uncomfortable at the closeness of the link between himself and the little Programmer. What tales might have gotten back to Gushie of his days of less than marital bliss?

"She uh, she was on the train?" he asked hesitantly, noting Gushie's use of the past tense and jumping to the only logical conclusion.

"Uh-huh. Her demise was instantaneous, I am told." Gushie blinked once, twice and chewed his top lip again. His eyes held that far away look for a moment, and then he turned back to Al. "At least she didn't suffer."

"Were you close?"

"Not recently, Admiral. Circumstances being what they are…"

Al nodded - a wry grin on his face. They all knew the consequences of their line of work. Gushie lowered his eyes and twitched his chin, to indicate the talisman he always bore around his neck. It was most often worn inside his polo neck sweaters, or high collared lab coats, and so kept private, but had been on display just frequently enough that his close colleagues knew he never left home without it. It was as much a part of him as his halitosis, though few were aware of its significance. Al had never paid it any attention before. Yet, looking at it close-to now, he recognized from his time with Ruthie that it was a Mizpah – a pendant broken in two, which, when pieced back together read in ancient Hebrew:

"The Lord Watch between me and thee while we are absent from one another."

They were given to protect the wearers from harm, usually shared by lovers, but sometimes – as here – given to members of the same family. He didn't need Gushie to spell out that cousin Miriam had been the recipient of the other half.

"It didn't do her much good, did it?" Gushie muttered, and his face said the rest – 'It's not doing such a hot job for me, either!'

"I'm sorry, Gush." Al didn't know what else to say, but his expression was genuinely sympathetic. It was clear that these two had been very fond of each other as children, and had not so much drifted apart or outgrown each other as fallen into the familiar trap of taking each other for granted.

Sometimes a loss was felt even more keenly when you'd ignored someone in the comfortable certainty that there would be plenty of time to look him or her up later. Today, you were too busy, but there was always tomorrow. As Gushie himself was fond of saying: "Time and Space can be a bitch."

Whatever the future held (assuming he had one – where  _was_  that bomb expert?) Al was suddenly profoundly grateful that Sam had pushed him into mending fences with Ruthie, wiping out some of the 'what ifs.'

Gushie looked as if he'd been about to shrug his shoulders, but thought better of it. "Since the funeral," he whispered hoarsely, "I've been getting death-threats."

His hangdog expression forestalled the rebuke 'You should have told us.'

Instead, Al asked needlessly "Anti-Semitic insults?"

"One or two." Gushie replied, with a self-conscious snigger. His grip had lost a fraction of its tension, his head was not so rigidly erect, but he was still conducting an internal battle to maintain self-control.

"I never really thought of you as being Jewish, Gushie," Al commented, almost apologetically, feeling acutely aware of how little he really knew about the man he'd worked with for so long.

Come to think of it, he only ever "talked shop" with the vast majority of his co-workers. It was a startling revelation to think that they all had religious beliefs and thoughts and feelings and families he had no idea about. "Hidden depths" Sam would probably have called them. He made a silent resolution that if they survived this little crisis he would try to make time to converse more casually with his colleagues: to see them as real people rather than as a resource to be deployed.

"I'm not sure how I should take that observation, Admiral," Gushie retorted, but without rancor. He sighed, "But I think my father would have agreed with you."

'So,' thought Al, 'Gushie's religious fervor didn't measure up to Daddy's expectations. I can identify with that.' His own relationship with the Catholic Church had been severely strained at times. Another fence Sam had helped to repair, at least in part.

At this point, Al became aware of a figure approaching from the direction of the elevator shafts. He stood up, glad to stretch his legs, which had started to cramp. He announced confidently "We'll have you home free in no time now, Gushie. Just hang in there." Privately, he was thinking 'This kid better know his stuff, or there won't be enough of us left to fill an anorexic's lunch box never mind a body bag.'

Corporal Kincaid was the epitome of a good Marine: ginger hair cropped regulation short-back-and-sides, uniform starched and pressed and brass buttons polished, shoes shined so you could see your face in them, peaked cap set at just the right angle.

He hadn't bothered with the standard bomb-disposal Kevlar 'armor': padded flak jacket, chest and crotch-plates etc…

For one thing, the darned kit weighed neigh on seventy pounds and was an encumbrance. He preferred to have the maneuverability of everyday uniform. For another thing, from what the computer had told him of the bomb's destructive capabilities, the 'protective' clothing would afford him as much defense as a brown paper bag over the head during a nuclear holocaust.

Besides, a blatant show of disregard for precautionary measures enabled him to appear supremely confident in his ability to cure the problem. He walked with a measured gait, back ramrod straight, shoulders squared. Only his eyes betrayed the terror beneath the ice cool façade. He was barely twenty-three years old and had recently become engaged to the effervescent Patti from coding. He had his whole life ahead of him: only now this bomb threatened to rob him of all that. He tightened his grip on the toolbox he carried, hoping to still the tremors in his hands. The Admiral had stepped forward to meet him, and he didn't look very happy.

"Corporal Kincaid, reporting for duty,  _Sir_ ," he pronounced crisply, standing to attention and saluting smartly.

Al returned the salute automatically. His instinct was to explode "What the hell took you so long? Where the devil have you been?" but he could see the young man was struggling to keep his pants dry. He contented himself with a snide yet sincere, "Glad you could join us, Corporal."

Gushie acknowledged the new arrival with a wan smile and a renewed clenching of the steering wheel. He drew a breath and let it out with a shudder. "I t-trust you will soon extricate me from this encumbrance," he said - eyes fixed pleadingly on the young man.

Kincaid set down his toolbox and opened it up, an obviously false grin carved into his face. "No worries." he assured, his tone barely betraying the lack of confidence he felt. He'd been well trained, and was a quick study. He knew all the theory and had been consistently top of his class on the bomb disposal courses but that was as far as it went. Hitherto he had only ever worked on simulations and dummies. This was his first real "live" bomb, and he had every expectation that it could well be his last. In his brain he kept repeating the same litany 'Don't panic. Keep a cool head. Don't panic. Keep a cool head. Don't panic…' it didn't help much.

As a young man, Al Calavicci had had little time for the top brass, but he'd known how to take orders. From the occasional dealings he'd had with the Corporal before him, he knew Kincaid was of the same mold. As a full blown Admiral, Al knew how to dish out orders, but he also knew how to deal with young enlisted men still wet behind the ears finding themselves behind enemy lines for the first time. He was more of a psychologist than he realized- which was probably why Verbena Beeks found him such hard going.

"This is your show, Corporal. Where do you want me?"

Ralph "Rusty" Kincaid was taken aback, both by the friendliness of the Admiral's tone, and by the faith he was placing in him. Though he'd found the senior officer somewhat pompous at times, he was rather in awe of him. He had a manner about him which commanded the deepest respect, so that in or out (way out!) of uniform, one could never forget who or what he was, and what he had achieved in his life, and reacted accordingly. Ralph was momentarily at a loss for words and looked around to cover his embarrassment. Then he swallowed hard. This was it. Might as well get it over with.

"Uh, I may need help to balance things from the other side, keep it steady. If you could get into the car next to…to…" he hesitated.

"Gushie," supplied Gushie. Everybody called him Gushie and he liked it that way. If anyone had used any other form of address, he'd probably have looked over his shoulder to find out to whom they were talking. His life was in this young man's hands. He wanted them on familiar terms so that the Corporal could concentrate on worrying about the important things, like how  **not**  to blow them all to Kingdom Come.

Al was already moving around the rear of the vehicle to take up his assigned position. He'd calculated correctly. The idea of an NCO being authorized to order an Admiral about was mind blowing enough to help the lad get a grip.

Al opened the car door cautiously and lifted Gushie's jacket from the seat, laying it carefully in the back of the car. Then he eased himself into the blue-grey upholstery and tried in vain to make himself comfortable.

"Okey-dokey, all set?" Al's careless tone intimated an invitation to embark on a boy's night out, cruising up and down the boulevards to pick up a bevy of beauties, rather than the life-or-death activity they were about to engage in.

They all knew they weren't fooling anybody with their bravado and false cheerfulness but none of them wanted to be the first to crack, and that was holding them all up.

"Ready as I'll ever be," the reply came almost in unison from Gushie and Rusty, who opened the driver's door to its full extent, crouching down and bracing his back against it while he studied the contraption Gushie bore.

It was held together in something that resembled a broad money belt, only stuffed with explosives where there should be dollar bills. And whereas a cash-stasher was normally worn around the waist, hidden beneath the clothing, this was snugly fixed at chest level in plain sight, with straps both under the armpits and over the shoulders. Protruding out from the centre like an outsized oblong ticket machine, bulged the trigger mechanism, sealed in an opaque unit.

As the Corporal examined it, Gushie looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I hope you have steady h-hands. I'm exceedingly ticklish."

Unable to vouch for the stability of his hands, Rusty declined to answer, especially since he was convinced that his voice would be decidedly shaky. Instead, he flashed Gushie a quick nervous grin, and then lowered his head to sift through his toolbox. It was compact, and neatly lain out, resembling not so much a mechanics box of tricks as a surgeon's delicate instrument kit: fine precision implements, honed to perfection. The first items he selected were a sort of dental mirror - 2cm in diameter with an angled metal handle, a pen-torch and a scalpel.

Gushie's eyes widened in horror. He sucked in air noisily through the filter of his bushy moustache.

Al, who couldn't see what the Corporal was about from where he sat, placed a gently restraining hand on the victim's arm for a moment and spoke as reassuringly as he was able.

"Hang on in there, Gush. We're with you all the way." He mouthed a silent addendum 'Though I hope to God it doesn't go  _that_  far'.

" _That may not be possible, Admiral_." Ziggy broke in. The computer had been uncharacteristically quiet for some time, and all three men were startled by the sudden reassertion of its omnipresence.

"Say what?" queried Al.

" _Your presence may soon be required elsewhere, Admiral_." The speech circuits were matter-of-fact, emotionless, but never mechanical. " _A new guest has just checked into the Waiting Room. Dr Beckett has Leaped again_."

"Oh, that's just great!" Al shrugged his shoulders and raised his forearms, palms heavenward. "Sam, you have a  _wonderful_  sense of timing."

Then he addressed himself to Ziggy, although his face was turned to focus on Gushie, "Is Sam in any immediate danger?"

There was a pause of around a nano-second while Ziggy upgraded his databanks.

Although strictly speaking the hybrid computer was asexual, Al annoyed both Tina and Verbena by thinking of it as male when it was being efficient and female when it became temperamental, as was all too often the case. Added to which, the computer's vocal range altered whenever Gushie tweaked its circuitry, making it sound at times as deep as Arnie, at others as shrill as Marilyn, and all points in between. Sam also referred to Ziggy at times by both male and female pronoun, but he was not motivated by any sexist preconceptions. Rather his Swiss-cheesed brain took its cue from Al's most recent reference.

" _It would appear that Dr Beckett's surroundings are quite comfortable, and his activities purely domestic. I cannot at this stage be specific as to his location, or the nature of his present assignment, but his continued existence is not under threat pro-temp. Am I to understand that you will be remaining here?"_

"You just said Sam didn't need me, right Ziggy? I think I can be more use where I am. Advise me at once if Sam's circumstances change."

" _Naturally_." Ziggy sounded peeved, her tone implying 'As if you need to ask'.

Gushie's relief was evident as he exhaled loudly and flexed his hands once more on the steering wheel, dropping them now from the 10 to 2 driving position to somewhere around 20 to 4, though he was not quite ready to relinquish his hold altogether. He opened his mouth to thank Al, amazed and flattered that the Admiral would even consider putting  _his_  needs above those of the Head of the Project and Al's closest friend. The words wouldn't come, so he renewed his chewing of the hairs on his upper lip in an effort to work up some saliva. He kept his eyes trained on the superior officer. He didn't really want to know what the young Corporal was doing, he just hoped the kid knew, and tried not to contemplate the consequences if he didn't.

The kid's thoughts were running along much the same lines. He had the thin torch clamped securely between his teeth with the beam directed at the control unit. He examined the seal on the front panel from every angle using the mirror.

Of a sudden, Gushie seemed to realize that his outstretched arms were a hindrance to Rusty's endeavors and he snapped them down by his sides, clutching the base of his seat instead, as if terrified of what devilment his idle hands might create if allowed free rein.

Al decided his mind should be similarly kept occupied as Rusty announced,

"The exterior looks clear. I'm about ready to open her up."

Besides, Al was bursting with curiosity.

"So, Gushie, you gonna tell us how you acquired this little fashion accessory? They sure as hell aren't sellin' 'em on Special at Macys this weekend."

"Indeed not, Admiral. Had that been the case, I am sure I could have resisted the temptation to spend." Gushie almost managed a smile, which he wiped away before it could develop into a nervous twitch. He frowned pensively – not in an attempt to recall what had occurred for every detail was etched indelibly upon his brain – rather in an effort to find a place to start. His mouth was dry, and his voice cracked as he spoke, pausing frequently to chew on his face fungus.

"I suppose I should have been more on my guard, after the – the threats. I didn't really take them that seriously. It seemed inconceivable that anyone would – would go to that amount of trouble t-to eliminate anyone as insignificant as myself."

Al thought it prudent not to mention the times he'd heard comments such as,

"If that Gushie breathes on me once more, I'll tear him limb from limb."

Indeed, he'd thought it himself a time or two, but the threat was an idle one.

" _I would hardly call your contribution on this Project insignificant, Gushie. I for one have found your input quite stimulating_." Ziggy had been eavesdropping again.

"I don't remember programming you for flattery." Gushie retorted, with a self-conscious snigger, "but thank you for those few kind words anyway, Ziggy."

"Without wanting to start getting mushy," added Al, "you shouldn't sell yourself short, Gushie. You  _have_  managed to be quite useful on the odd occasion." He might have given Gushie a jocular jab of the arm in other circumstances, but not here, not now.

"Careful, Admiral, you'll have my head swelling." Gushie was well aware that Al was not renowned for being lavish with his praise. His boss was letting him know that he was a highly valued member of the team whose efforts had not gone unnoticed. He grinned a sickly grin. "Would this be a good time to negotiate a raise?"

"Don't push it, Gush," came the poetic reply. Al even managed a wink.

Rusty snickered as he placed the recently removed casing on the floor and rifled through his tools once more, searching for the appropriate implement with which to tackle the next stage of the operation. 'So far - so good,' he told himself, searching the inner workings for any signs of booby traps.

Gushie's head drooped a little as he was drawn to the object of Rusty's scrutiny, and then he looked sharply away again, focusing on the reassuring face of Al.

"So? What happened?" his companion was determined to keep Gushie talking.

"Basically," confessed Gushie, "I fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. I was driving over to Destiny to visit an old family friend, when I encountered an automobile accident on the old desert road. Two vehicles were entangled across the highway, barring my way, and a bloodstained man flagged me down. He was distraught, begging my assistance to rescue his wife from the wreckage.

"No doubt you've already read the script for what happened next. When I got out of my car and went to help, two more of them grabbed me from behind. They took great delight in letting me know that they were 5th Reich and I was about to be 'ethnically cleansed'. Gave me the full right wing spiel quoting ' _Soldier of Fortune_ ' chapter and verse, 'White Supremacy' and all that. How I was tainted and had Christ's blood on my hands and had to be made to atone for the sins of all Jews who had ever lived. You've heard their propaganda. Sh-shall I tell you something? Forget the personal danger, the  _scariest_  thing was that they really believed all that Neo-Nazi Aryan idealism they were spouting."

He tensed reflexively as Rusty poked around with his mirror and his proverbial fine-tooth comb, sussing out the anti-handling devices.

Gushie drew in a deep breath and continued.

"They said it was more satisfying to wipe out whole train loads of us like they had at Dallas and the publicity for their cause was better, but it took a lot of organization and expense. So in between times they liked to keep their hands in by picking us off one by one. Then they gave me a choice. I could sit nursing the bomb where I was till I fell asleep from exhaustion and collapsed, or let the midday sun detonate it, in which case I'd die alone like the infidel I was. Or I could run into town in a vain attempt to get help and take most of the townsfolk with me when I blew. They didn't care how many died, the more the better. They said it would be my fault, not theirs, and besides at least a few of those I shared my fate with would be bound to be "Jewish scum" as well, so I'd be doing them a favor."

Rusty was shocked – not only by the faction's callousness, but also by the Admiral's casual acceptance of it as he listened – and his face betrayed the fact, as did the freezing of his hand halfway through an exploratory maneuver. Gushie and Al exchanged knowing looks. They'd been around considerably longer and were infinitely more worldly-wise than the Corporal. The look said: 'Welcome to the real world, kid.'

A wave of guilt washed over Gushie again. "After they'd got me back in the car and made their getaway – they had a car hidden behind the wrecks of course – I just sat there for I dunno how long, maybe an hour or more. I was too scared to move. Then, suddenly, I couldn't stand it out there in the middle of nowhere any more. The solitude was unbearable, the silence deafening, if you know what I mean. This was the only place I could think of to come. I'm sorry. I-I didn't consider what would happen to Sam if this thing blows and takes the Imaging Chamber, the Accelerator, or the Waiting Room with it. My actions were motivated by pure self-interest. Perhaps I should leave."

He tensed up again.

"Don't be a damn fool, man!" remonstrated Al. The two men had not always been on the best of terms. There had been a time or two when the Admiral could have cheerfully broken Gushie's neck personally. But that was chiefly Tina's fault – insisting on using Gushie as a pawn in her little games to make Al jealous. Nothing had really happened between them, and he couldn't blame the little creep for playing along, after all, he didn't suppose Gushie got that many offers. Besides, all that was in the past, and although the Chief Programmer had his faults, he was darned good at his job, and not a bad sort at heart. Al wouldn't wish anyone to go through this ordeal alone, and in any case the Corporal was his best, probably his  **only**  hope of coming out of this thing in one piece. He'd have done exactly the same thing in the circumstances, and now told Gushie as much.

" _If it is of any comfort to you_ ," put in Ziggy, " _the blast is unlikely to penetrate as deep as the areas you mention_."

'Maybe not,' thought Kincaid, 'but if this sonovabitch blows, there's gonna be a lot of bad hair days around.'

Not being privy to his thoughts, Gushie relaxed a couple of notches, then one or two more as Rusty said aloud, "I think I've got the measure of this baby now. It's a highly sophisticated piece of hardware. There are several anti-handling devices to over-ride, but with a cool head and a steady hand we should be fine, just so long as I tackle 'em in the right order." Inside, he was praying like he'd never prayed before for help in keeping his head cool and his hands steady.

"It's your move, Corporal." Al encouraged, "take your time and remember - we're here to help. You just call the shots."

It still seemed fundamentally wrong for him to be telling such a high-ranking officer what to do, but the Admiral's confidence in him was beginning to rub off. Some small part of Rusty was starting to believe that he was going to pull this one off and be a goddam hero. He was gonna make Patti  _so_ proud of him.

He pursed his lips and released a long slow breath, settling himself into the most comfortable position he could muster. He'd have liked more room to work, better light, and more state-of-the-art tools, but he'd just have to make the best of it. Time to bite the bullet and take charge.

"There are mirrors in here," he explained, "That means the first obstacle is laser traps. I need some way of revealing where the beams are so I don't break them." He was more or less thinking aloud, but as he vocalized his requirement the answer came to him. "Do you happen to have one of your cigars with you, Admiral?"

"Never travel without 'em, kid," retorted Al, producing one with a flourish from the breast pocket of his iridescent blue jacket. "But isn't it a shade premature to be celebrating?"

Rusty made a circular motion with his mouth mirror, pointing in the direction of the device. "If you could gently blow some smoke around here, the laser beams will bounce off the particles and I should be able to see where we're at."

"Good thinking, Kincaid." The kid was shaping up well. Al's expectations of survival were increasing. He removed the wrapper from his cigar and lit up, drawing in deeply. Somehow, it was not so pleasurable a sensation as usual. Twisting further round in his seat, he filled his mouth with smoke and exhaled with a long controlled breath aimed at Gushie's chest-plate.

"Eureka!" The bomb disposal expert was getting caught up in his task, bolstered by the confirmation of his diagnosis. "I've got the suckers now."

He began beavering away inside the contraption with tweezers and fine-pointed wire cutters, muttering to himself as he identified which colored wire he was targeting. Now and again he switched to a miniature screwdriver, disconnecting screw-down wire connectors. He smiled to himself at what turned out to be "window-dressing" as he predicted, totally engrossed in his activities and oblivious to either Gushie or the quietly puffing Al, who found himself more impressed by the moment with the young man's skill and dexterity.

" _Admiral_."

The sudden interruption to each man's thoughts made all three tense up again.

"Not now, Ziggy."

" _ **Admiral**_ _."_  Ziggy was used to having to repeat herself, but it still irked her circuits.

"What is it?"

" _You instructed me to inform you if Dr. Beckett's circumstances altered."_  The tone was matter-of-fact, yet managed to hold a hint of urgency.

"What's happened?" Alarm registered in Al's deep brown eyes.

" _From my monitoring of his vital signs, it would appear that Dr Beckett has just been rendered unconscious by a blow to the head with a blunt instrument."_

"Sam!" Al almost fell out of his seat in his haste to extricate himself from Gushie's vehicle. Stiff and awkward from the long period of inactivity, the fumble reminded him sharply of the delicacy of their situation, and he proceeded with greater caution, making sure he closed the car door softly behind him.

Saying "Sorry to cut and run, Gush," and "All yours, Corporal, keep up the good work," in almost the same breath, he scurried back across the motor pool, heading for the elevators and thence to the Imaging Chamber, cursing under his breath every step of the way.


	5. Chapter 5

Admiral Calavicci approached the door to the Imaging Chamber and automatically ordered "Gushie, centre me on Sam!" before remembering that the Chief Programmer was otherwise occupied. Fortunately, Sammy-Jo stepped into the breach and did the honors.

Al had managed to glean a few basic facts about Sam's Leap from Ziggy on the way down, but had foregone his customary preliminary visit to the Waiting Room, risking ignorance in his haste to check on his friend.

He commanded the computer to inform him of any significant change of status in Kincaid's undertaking during his absence. Clutching his com-link, he prepared to step into Sam's world with a weary sigh. Chronologically, these two crises were nearly fifteen years apart, but for Al it was a case of trying to be in two places at once, and even Sam's convoluted lifetime left him never having enough time for what had to be done. Perversely, there always seemed to be plenty of time for him to worry, which he was doing now – big time – though experience forbade him to reveal it in his features.

Thus it was a jovial looking hologram that sauntered casually into the Balmoral Suite through a portal of bright light.

The sight that greeted him almost made him drop his mask in horror, but he forced himself to pretend that things weren't as bad as they looked. They mustn't be.

There were two people in the room, but Al would have known that it was the woman's aura that currently hid his friend, even if Ziggy hadn't told him the identity Sam had assumed. Ever since Samantha Stormer, Al had insisted on fine-tuning the neural link, so that he could see 'through' the aura to the real Sam beneath. Even though seeing elements of two people occupying the same space gave him a headache, it was preferable to the alternative.

Al looked at Sam.

'She' was seated, legs astride, and bound at the ankles with a fine nylon cord to the ornately carved clawed feet of the Queen Anne chair. The arms were similarly tied behind the chair-back. The head was bowed down on the chest, tilted slightly to the left, not quite obscuring the fact that the mouth was gagged with duct-tape, and the eyes were closed in stupefaction.

The other occupant of the room was a man in his mid to late thirties, some six feet five inches tall, and broad of shoulder. He wore an immaculate fine wool suit in charcoal grey, whiter-than-white shirt, silver-grey tie flecked with a darker grey and held in place with a solid silver tiepin. His fair hair was trimmed short and neat around his ears and he was clean-shaven, with no hint of five o'clock shadow despite the lateness of the hour. He looked every inch the respectable gentleman, yet he was advancing on the hostage with his arm outstretched toward her bosom and a strange glare in his bright blue eyes.

"Sam! You of all people, caught up in S&M and the full bondage bit. After all you've said about me!" Al tried to sound as if he believed the teasing was appropriate, but an edge of concern crept into his voice.

"Get away!" he chided the stranger, "She's old enough to be your mother!"

The man was almost on top of Sam now, his hand definitely reaching out to grope her breasts, and Al's forced amusement turned to genuine anger as he instinctively stepped forward to square up to the lecher.

"You'd better not be thinking of raping the old girl. That's  _really_  low." Even the liberal minded Al considered some things beyond the pale.

He knew he could do nothing to hinder the creep, so he shouted a warning in Sam's ear, admonishing his friend to wake up and at least attempt to defend the lady's honor. Sam's reaction was conspicuous by its absence, and for one dreadful moment Al feared he was not merely comatose but dead. The Observer punched frantically at his com-link, seeking – and mercifully receiving – Ziggy's reassurance that the Leaper lived.

"Come  _on_ , Sam. Wake up," he urged, over and over, his frustration at being unable to intervene directly rising to fever pitch. Finally, after interminable seconds, Sam showed the faintest flicker of awareness.

The awareness was Pain.

Not self. Not 'I have a body, legs, arms, a head, and somewhere something hurts.'

Merely pain.

His entire being consisted of pure unrelenting agony from which the only solace lay in the belly of the whale of oblivion which had swallowed him up, but which now – like Jonah's, spewed him forth onto the shore of suffering. He tried in vain to swim back into that great gaping black maw, to recapture the blissful state of numbness that had deserted him, but  _something_  wouldn't let him. As he floundered, his awareness grew to identify that something as a noise. A nagging, persistent, grating noise that forced him to remember he had ears to hear and a brain to interpret with – both kept in place by a head, and that was where it hurt the most.

Gradually, the noise took shape and became a voice. The voice formed itself into words and became his name, and a frantic warning that he was being attacked.

He prized his eyelids apart; letting in bright blinding light, which intensified his pain. Through the blur, his reluctant senses made out a figure, a huge creature towering over him, looming menacingly, and reaching out, plunging a massive hand down Mary's 'V' neck jumper.

Total awareness returned in a rush then, and Sam desperately tried to back away, acting more on instinct than intellect as he fought the stabbing pain to focus on defense. It was only after he'd attempted the maneuver that the awareness extended to the knowledge that he was tethered. Consequently, his panicked withdrawal had merely caused him to tip the chair off balance, upending it and sending both it and him crashing to the floor, legs in the air, tweed skirt rising up inelegantly.

As he fell, his head caught the leg of the bureau, re-opening the wound an inch or so behind his left ear, so that warm blood trickled down his neck and dripped onto the carpet. He closed his eyes tight in a futile attempt to blot out the renewed pain.

" _Sam!_ " the voice shrieked in alarm, and awareness gave the voice a name – Al.

By way of reply he gave a low moan, muffled by the gag, but music to Al's ears nonetheless.

"Attaboy, Sam. Come on back to us."

The eyelids flickered and eventually reopened, revealing watery eyes that expressed pain and fear and confusion in equal measure.

When he'd toppled over, his aggressor had backed off, withdrawing his hand from Mary's cleavage. In it he held something white, which Al – observing it from the corner of his eye – at first assumed to be her brassiere; wrenched off in his extremely indecent hast to assault the defenseless captive. However, a rustling sound soon gave him to know that it was in fact a neatly folded piece of paper, which had been tucked into the aforementioned undergarment.

The stranger now turned his full attention to the true object of his desire; reading intently until a second groan from Sam reminded him of Mary's distress. He tore himself reluctantly away from the missive and knelt down beside her, reaching out once more.

Sam recoiled, eyes darting rapidly in search of escape; body tensed at the realization that he was trapped, helpless, completely at the monster's mercy.

The stranger saw the fear and spoke at last, reassuringly, as he stretched out to remove the gag. "Hey, steady on, Mary. It's okay. It's only me."

The lady in question still looked bemused and mistrustful, shrinking away, no doubt due to the obvious blow to her head. So he obligingly elaborated, "It's me - your boss? Lyle Strickland?"

He ripped away the tape with one quick tug, as if snatching off a sticking plaster. It stung in much the same way, leaving a mawkish taste in Sam's mouth, and causing his breath to catch in his throat, before escaping in short sharp pants.

Al began keying in this latest information via his hand link so that Ziggy could pull all available data from his files.

Sam worked his jaw, enjoying the renewed freedom of movement, and hoping to encourage his voice to return. His head still throbbed, and his ears were ringing.

' _Concussion_ ,' decided the awareness that was once again Dr Beckett.

"W-wo-would ya be so koind as t'help me up?" he croaked hoarsely, trying to moisten sandpaper lips with a penicillin culture for a tongue, "me arms is getting crushed back here, so dey are."

Al looked up from his studies, startled by the unaccustomed accent.

Strickland looked startled too, as if the idea that Mary could not rise unaided had simply not occurred to him. His attention was still drawn towards the note he clutched in his hand, but he obliged now, guiltily muttering his apologies.

As his centre of gravity was shifted, Sam experienced a wave of nausea and his head swam, so that he felt he was on a roller coaster. He grunted and closed his eyes once more, attempting to re-orient himself. Now that he was back up off the floor, his head drooped down onto his chest again. It was just too much effort to hold it erect. Once Strickland had unbound his wrists, Sam slowly moved his arms round in front of him, laying his hands in his lap.

Unrestrained, his whole torso slumped forwards, shoulders rounded. His arms felt like lead and he had to flex his cramped fingers before he could rub the life back into his chafed wrists.

Instead of unfettering Sam's feet, his employer returned to the note he had retrieved, unable to ignore it a moment longer. Opening it out to its full extent, he scanned it, and then re-read it, mouthing the words silently to himself and shaking his head. Satisfied that Sam was out of immediate danger, and unable to help his friend with his bonds, Al moved around in an attempt to read the note over Strickland's shoulder and find out what could possibly be so important that it took priority over helping an injured employee.

Meanwhile, Sam bent forward to fumble clumsily at the ropes round his ankles, almost toppling the chair forwards this time. He grabbed the seat and took a moment to steady himself and still the head rush, before resuming his efforts, small noises in the back of his throat bearing testimony to the added strain that this maneuver was placing on his aching cranium.

Once free, he sat with his head in his lap, waiting for his stiff and sore body to return to at least a semblance of normality. His own vision blurred to the point of obscurity, he sought enlightenment as to the object of the other men's focus.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice thick, resisting the instinct to look up, and not caring which of his companions replied.

"Ransom note," rejoined Strickland curtly, jaw set firm with controlled emotion which could have been anger, or fear, or anxiety or a combination of all the above.

Sam bit his lip. He felt a tightness grip the pit of his stomach.

_The girls!_  How could he have forgotten about the girls?

The note was compiled – in time-honored fashion – using clippings from newspapers and magazines. It informed Mr. Strickland that the price of his daughters' lives was " _One Million quid in used notes_ ", to be delivered as per instructions, which were to be forthcoming in the morning, along with proof that " _we got the little bitches where you'll never find 'em_ ". It also cautioned him not to seek assistance from " _the pigs_ ".

Al let out a long soft whistle; only to curtail it when he saw the creases it etched round Sam's eyes and on his forehead. His friend was evidently still feeling beyond fragile. "These nozzles don't go in for half measures, do they?" he observed, tapping his portable keyboard for information. He raised his eyebrows.

"They must have done their homework, Sam. This guy is worth that several times over. He's  _loaded_  – as in both barrels!"

Strickland lowered his arm at last, having read and re-read the demand a dozen or more times. Every word was printed indelibly now on his brain, so he let the paper slip through his fingers as if it no longer existed. He moved across the floor with the wooden stride of an automaton, heading for the telephone.

Al was still absorbing data, but he registered the move. "Uh-oh, what's he doing, Sam?"

Sam reluctantly raised his head, clutching the site of the injury as he did so, feeling hair matted by sticky, congealing blood, while the fresh outpouring from his recent fall moistened his fingers. He reworded Al's question for the other man's benefit.

"Calling the police, of course. Scotland Yard or MI5 or whatever the hell they have for so called law enforcement in this godforsaken country," replied Strickland vehemently.

Al started flapping - waving his arms around and shuffling about, putting himself between the man and the phone and yelling hysterically "Stop him, Sam. That's the last thing he should do. You've gotta stop him, Sam. Quickly.  _Do_  something.  _Say_  something.  **SAM!** "

Sam's co-ordination was shot all to pieces, his concentration minimal, but he roused himself. He trusted Al implicitly, years of Leaping teaching him how to take up a cue. If action were needed urgently, he would take it, regardless of personal circumstances. "Ya don't want to be doin' that," he told his temporary employer firmly.

Strickland hesitated, turning back towards the old lady, whom he fast feared had lost her mind. "What? Those SoB's have got my girls. I've got to… to…" He gestured towards the phone, but he was less sure of himself, giving Sam his opening.

"Uh, Oi don't t'ink dats such a good idea," he reiterated, looking enquiringly at Al for prompting.

Al fed him the information almost as quickly as Ziggy supplied it to him, except that unlike the computer,  _he_  had to pause occasionally for breath. "That's what he did first time, Sam. The cops blundered in mob-handed and both girls turned up dead. They were found floating face down in some river called the Great Ooze, ah Great Ouse," Al shuddered, "with their… ugh, their throats cut." Al made a gesture, waving his flat hand horizontally back and forth across his own neck.

Sam gasped in horror. He felt an iron hand squeeze his heart, tightening his chest in a vice-like grip. He pictured their smiling faces in his mind. He had only known them for a few short hours, but he had already bonded with them. The image of their young, innocent lives so foully cut short was more than Sam could bear.

"Oi can't let that happen," he breathed. He stretched out his arm to restrain Lyle; half rising from his seat until dizziness forced him to resume it.

"What are you babbling about, woman?" snapped the irate father.

"You mustn't call de po-leece. De kidnappers have warned ya not to, and Oi believe dey mean business." He rubbed his neck to emphasize the point. "Dey banjaxed me good an' proper, so they did. We canna afford to risk doin' anyt'ing that could put the weans in any more danger."

'What  _should_  we do, Mary? We have to  _do_  something."

Sam could see that Lyle was used to consulting Mary, at least where the children were concerned. Sam couldn't quite fathom the man out. He obviously loved his daughters and feared for them, but there was something strange in his demeanor, as if he were distancing himself from the situation. There was something deeper going on here, and Sam would have to work out what it was – just as soon as his head cleared. Right now, it hurt like hell, the effort of thinking making it throb anew, and he groaned softly in spite of himself. "Ooooh, Oi've the very divil of a headache."

Once more Strickland reacted as if he'd forgotten Mary was there. He moved back to the chair and bent over her. "Sorry, Mary, how thoughtless of me. Are you all right? Let me take a look at you." He examined the back of Sam's head clumsily and tutted even as Sam hissed with pain. "Gosh, this looks really nasty. I'd better call an ambulance. You just hang tight." He started for the phone again.

"No!" Sam protested, and again tried in vain to get to his feet.

Al was hovering, his concern increasing as he too took a closer look. Fingers playing on keys with long practiced agility, he summoned up Ziggy's diagnosis.

"He's right, Sam. You've got a hairline skull fracture where the cerebellum meets the oxy…" he nudged the side of the com-link with the heel of his thumb as one might, in times past, have nudged a juke box whose needle had got stuck in its vinyl groove. It hiccupped. "Occipital lobe. You should get it seen to. There could be all sorts of complications."

Had it been the real Mary McGillicuddy, or any other patient, Dr Beckett would have heartily concurred. Would have insisted most emphatically on immediate medical attention, X-rays, stitches, bed-rest, wrapping in cotton wool, the works. But he was  _not_  Mary.  _He_  was Sam Beckett, Leaper, time traveler, and man with a mission. He didn't have time for such precautions. "No hospital." He told both men, in a tone that brooked no argument, adding form the corner of his mouth to Al, "If'n dey get me in dere, it'll be Observation for at least 48hours. Those girls may not have that long."

"What are you saying?" demanded Strickland. Though he was pretty sure he had heard he didn't want to draw the obvious conclusion.

"It's moy fault. Dose girls were in my charge. Oi was here to protect dem, and Oi failed. Now Oi'm goin' to get them back safely if'n it's the last t'ing Oi do."

The hand link squealed.

"Careful, Sam. Ziggy says there's an eighty-one point three percent chance it could be just that."

Sam was the last person to embrace a death wish, but, rough as he felt, he didn't seriously believe that self-sacrifice would be a prerequisite of his current task. He had arrogantly assumed too much on arrival, had allowed his guard to drop, and for that he willingly accepted what he considered a lenient punishment. His pain would pass. Eventually. The guilt was harder to endure. If he failed now, Shelley-Anne and Tori would pay the ultimate price for his negligence, and that was an option he was  _not_ prepared to consider. He found himself trembling, but if it was in some measure in fear, it was not for himself.

Strickland seemed to soften a little. He squeezed Mary's shoulder almost affectionately and then moved over to the bar, where he poured himself a stiff drink, which he sank in a single draught. He replenished his glass, and then held the bottle toward Sam. "Can I pour you a brandy? You look as if you could use it."

"No, t'anks," declined Sam, who - addled as he was – still knew that concussion and Cognac made for a catastrophic combination. "But Oi'll take some ice, if'n ya have it."

Displaying an unexpected degree of practicality, Strickland took a glass-cloth from behind the bar and spread it on the counter. Then he upended the ice bucket into the center of it, drawing up the corners to form a crude ice pack. Once he was satisfied that it was securely tied, he passed it over to Sam, who placed it gingerly up against the site of the injury.

The initial shock of contact made him wince, but he persevered, and was rewarded by a blessed numbness, which crept slowly across his skull.

"Better?" Strickland returned to the bar and refilled his glass a third time.

"Mm-hmm," Sam decided against nodding, "Oi'm getting dere. Oi'll be fine, just as soon as someone shoots dis herd o' wild elephants what's rampaging trew me brain."

Despite his concern for his friend's welfare, Al sniggered. It was very strange to hear Sam speaking in the Celtic vernacular, and in other circumstances it would have led to some strong ribbing on his part. Al made himself a promise to get in a few caustic digs once Sam was back up to par.

Strickland settled himself wearily onto a barstool and sighed. "What am I to do, Mary? Those girls are all I have left."

"Find dem."

What to the father sounded like a simple statement, the Observer knew to be somewhere between an instruction and a desperate plea from the heart. He keyed in the inquiry.

"We're working on it, Sam. Ziggy's pulling out all the stops but it could take some time." Some things never changed.

"How?" Strickland retorted.

"Ya  _are_  goin' t'pay?" It was not so much a question as a request for confirmation.

"Of course I'll pay – anything. Whatever it takes."

"Den you just organize de cash. Oi don't tink dey'll accept travelers checks. Leave the rest to me."

" **YOU?**  What can  _you_  do?" The tone held the implied criticism – 'you couldn't even stop them being taken' – that wounded Sam more deeply than the head blow could ever have done.

"Whatever it takes." Sam echoed his own words back to him, "Oi promise. Oi'll get them home." As if to prove it, Sam rose determinedly to his feet but having regained the perpendicular, he found his sense of balance sadly lacking. He swayed alarmingly, head bowed, feeling nauseous, clutching at the writing desk to keep himself from falling.

Strickland leapt to his own feet, and raced to lend a supporting arm.

"Whoa, you're not the bionic woman you know, Mrs. M," he chided. "I guess there's nothing either of us can do till they get in touch again. You'd best get a good night's rest. Dig a couple of aspirins out of that pantechnicon of yours, eh?" He put an arm round behind Mary's waist and slid the other beneath her lower arm from wrist to elbow. "Can you walk?"

Sam forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily on his employer as the room swam before his eyes. He was relieved that he managed to make slow progress thus, rather than have to suffer the indignity of being carried. His symptoms were fully consistent with the injury Al had ascribed to him, affecting as it did the areas controlling balance, co-ordination and vision. He would have to pace himself until he regained full mastery of these functions, but he had the advantage of an extra set of eyes to help him. He'd cope.

He had to.

"Oi'll just get me heed down for a wee while. Oi'll be okay," he spoke his thoughts aloud as Lyle led him back into the bedroom where he'd first arrived, as much to convince himself as to reassure the two concerned onlookers.

Lyle helped his housekeeper over to her bed. He turned back the covers and eased her into a sitting position, then bade her a civil goodnight, before beating a tactful retreat, taking the now melting ice pack with him.

Sam sat immobile on the edge of the bed. He was still holding the back of his head with his left hand. His right elbow rested on the corresponding knee, hand propping up his forehead.

"Honestly, Sam. I can't turn my back on you for two minutes without you getting into trouble, can I?" Al adopted his jovial approach once more; knowing Sam would not tolerate being lectured on his refusal to seek medical attention. It was true, he propounded, that Doctors certainly made the worst patients.

To which Sam retorted "Physician heal thyself?" adding with a wry grin, "give me a minute and Oi'll fetch a needle and thread from Mary's holdall and stitch meself up, so Oi will."

"You'll be telling me next you're seeing stars, buddy," taunted the hologram, receiving exactly the reply he'd anticipated.

"And whose fault moight dat be?"

Al made a big show of buttoning his jacket to cover up the flamboyant waistcoat, which consisted of celestial bodies in gold emblazoned on a rich blue background in the style of astrological emblems – stylized crescent moons vying for a patch of quilted sky with cross shaped stars, long-tailed comets and smiling suns sporting alternate sharp triangular and soft waving rays. It reminded Sam of the boy on the book cover.

"Sure 'n' when Oi foirst came-to an' laid eyes on dat, Oi t'ought Oi'd died and gone t' heav'n, so Oi did." Every once in a while, as now, a bemused expression mingled with the look of suffering on Sam's face, as he tried to come to terms with this strange dialect he found himself spouting.

Al should have been relieved by the jocular banter, but Sam was sitting altogether too still. His friend would never volunteer how badly he was incapacitated, so Al probed, "Good trick, that, Sam: exaggerating your infirmity so he'd leave us alone." He waved a hand in the direction Lyle had taken. Even as he spoke he was tapping at his com-link, getting Ziggy to update the information on Sam's true state of health, whilst pretending to research the mission.

"So, uhhhn, who's exaggerating?" confessed Sam wearily, kicking off the shoes and keeling over onto the bed. He scrunched up the pillow beneath his head and curled up in an almost fetal position, snatching the covers over his still fully clothed body. "What have you got for me, Al?" His voice was thick, strained.

"Not much, I'm afraid. We  _are_  working long distance, you know." Al paused. He wasn't sure how much Sam did know. "That is, uh, you've Leaped in…."

"Into London, November 30th 1988, Oi know, Oi know, Al. Cut to da chase will ya. Oi can hardly keep me eyes open."

Sam wriggled about, trying to get comfortable, breathing noisily, brow furrowed. Whilst he didn't normally believe in pumping his body full of chemicals at the slightest provocation, he would have been prepared to make an exception in this case, and found Lyle's suggestion of aspirin very tempting. Only problem was, that would have meant getting out of bed and hunting them out, fetching water, and generally moving about a good deal more than his giddy head and queasy stomach could even bear to contemplate.

"Ziggy's finished checking the original history, Sam. There isn't a lot to tell. The kidnappers and their hideout were never found, so we have no way of knowing where the girls are being held right now. This Ouse is a long river, and their bodies didn't turn up for a couple of days. They could have been thrown in anywhere. Ziggy isn't prepared to extrapolate on whereabouts or exactly when they died. She says…"

"Whoa, back up." Sam rolled over with a soft growl, rubbing his eyes. "Am Oi being dense, or just missing something? Oi should be Leaping any minute, right? You said, uh, you said they died cos their Da called the po-leece. Oi changed that didn't Oi? So now he pays the ransom, gets the girls back and lives happily ever after, yes? No?"

For his friend's sake, Al wished wholeheartedly that it could have been that simple. It almost never was, though, and this Leap was no exception.

"You  _have_  changed history, Sam. The absolute certainty of their deaths has now dropped to odds of around seventy seven percent on the kidnappers killing them. Ziggy won't be more precise, says there are too many variables. With no known location to lock onto, you can't just rescue them. Your best chance is to deliver the ransom and then follow them back to the girls when they collect it. I can help you keep tabs on them. But you'd already thought of that when you were talking to old money bags, right?"

"Wha-?" Oh, Oi guess so." Sam was operating more or less on automatic pilot and was in no mood or condition to intellectualize on what he may or may not have said or done or thought, much less why. Questions and theories tended to occur to him instinctively even at the best of times – which this certainly wasn't – but the questions still came.

"How'd he come by his money? Inherited? Could there be a motive there?"

"Remember Franklin's Department Stores?" Al ploughed on without waiting for Sam's reply. "Frank was Lyle's father. He set up the first two in New York and Boston - successful and profitable, but relatively small-time. Lyle is the one with the real business acumen. He inherited the stores at 21 when his father died, and over the next decade or so he turned them into a worldwide chain, almost as widespread as McDonald's. He's one of the youngest, richest, brightest tycoons of his day. He's in the British Isles now to negotiate details of franchises on six new stores in major cities, to add to the three already established in London, Birmingham and Glasgow. Only according to Ziggy, it all goes sour. When he identified the girl's bodies, he went to pieces. Got blind drunk and hurled himself off Westminster Bridge. Still will if you don't bring his daughters back safely. "

Al knew that Sam felt responsible for the situation, he felt that way himself. If only he'd gone straight to his friend when the Leap started, there was a good chance none of this would have happened. But the Admiral, while big in heart, was diminutive in stature. There was only so much of him to go around.

It was pointless wishing things otherwise; they would just have to make the best of it. And Al was every bit as determined as his Mr. Fixit buddy that things  _would_  turn out for the best in the end. Weighed down by the added guilt of knowing he'd allowed his friend to get hurt, he sought to reassure the Leaper. "Don't worry, pal. I'll have Ziggy pull out all the stops on this one. We'll stuff the databanks so full of local maps and likely scenarios that they'll be coming out of her gauge circuits. We'll find them, Sam, I promise."

But Sam was no longer listening. He had drifted into an uneasy kind of sleep.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Shelley had tried to scream again, but the sound stuck in her throat. She buried her sister's face into her chest, so that Tori should not see Nanny's bloodied head, closing her own eyes against the horrific image and trying to will away the wicked witch who was coming to get them. She felt something soft on her face, only it didn't feel like Nanny's comforting bosom, and it didn't smell of her familiar perfume. Before she had time to worry about it, the chloroform had rendered her insensible.

"'Ave you killed her, Henry?" asked the woman, as she blindfolded and bound the girls, and then bundled them into the laundry cart, covering them with sheets.

Her voice held a thrill in it, as if the idea excited her.

"'Course not," replied the man called Henry in a hurt tone, bending over Sam and checking the faint pulse in the neck just to be sure.

"Then get her trussed up and let's get out of 'ere before someone sees us."

For a couple of minutes both beavered away with the ropes in silence. Then the chambermaid made a quick tour of the room, making sure they had left no clues. She switched off the television as she passed it, and picked up the cloth Henry had used to attack the Nanny. She held it up to him accusingly. "You weren't going to leave this, were you?"

"'Course not. " he replied again, as if it were his standard response to any question, one of five phrases programmed in and produced at random when you pressed his button or pulled his cord.

"I've spent too long planning this to have you go and blow it now," she chided, tucking the cloth into her apron pocket alongside the napkin she had used herself.

"Calm down, honey, I'm not gonna blow anything," he soothed with a cocky grin. "We're gonna clean up and live happily ever after." He waved the ransom note toward his partner, and then pressed it to his lips before stuffing it into the old woman's cleavage with a flourish, tweaking at it like he was arranging a napkin in a wine glass.

"Not if you keep calling me honey, we won't," she replied icily. "You know how I hate it. My name is Honor." She stated this last with the exasperated tone of one who had been saying it all her life, a prissy little madam pointing out her identity to a forgetful teacher.

"Sor-ry." The apology sounded less than sincere. Henry was also put out. This was an old argument between them.

"Come on," she hissed, "before Angie comes back on duty and someone notices two identical chambermaids. The whole idea is that any witnesses think I'm her, remember?"

"'Course."

Henry moved round to the other side of the trolley and helped her to push it back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, then hanging the 'Do not disturb' sign on the knob. "That should keep the nosey-parkers out until his nibs gets home."

After a quick glance up and down the corridor to determine whether or not they were being observed they hastened to the service elevator, which they rode to the basement car park of the hotel. There, a convenient ramp led from the lifts, enabling the carts to be unloaded into the daily laundry trucks.

This time, however, Henry scuttled out and fetched his Vauxhall Astra van from its parking bay in a shadowy corner of the staff section. He backed it up to the ramp and opened the rear doors.

"Give us a hand," ordered Honor, lifting the first bundle onto her shoulder. "These bitches are dead weight."

Henry helped her to manhandle the unconscious children onto the floor of his van, pushing aside a couple of FOR SALE boards he'd forgotten to dump at the end of his working day.

Honor sighed. She had spent months touring her local estate agents for a contact who could get her the information she needed. At first she had dated some of the negotiators themselves, but although most of them had been less than honest by nature, not one had been what she considered kidnapper material. So she had moved on to the board men; ideally placed to find out which properties were empty and if and when they ceased to be so.

Finally, she had come across Henry, named for Henry Cooper the pugilist. Very fitting, she thought, since he was all brawn and no brains. Not her type at all, he was chosen for lack of a more suitable alternative, and because he was gullible enough to believe that she really cared for him and would share her ill-gotten gains and her future with him. What on earth he imagined she could possibly see in him was beyond her, but she played her part well, and he was easy enough to string along. And what he lacked in insight, he made up in a willingness to please that meant he generally did as she required of him like a well-trained puppy-dog.

He'd proved himself a gem at weeding out good holding sites; she'd give him that. He'd found the ideal spot, and three sound back-ups in case any should be sold and re-occupied before she could do her part and pick out the best target from among the hotel guests. Even so, she would be relieved when this was all over and – cash in hand – she could dispose of Henry along with all the other loose ends.

For her own peace of mind, she made sure the girls were safely nestled in their couchette, wedged in tight enough that they would not be tossed around the van too much. At this stage, she needed them in one piece. She shut and locked the doors, then clambered into the passenger seat, pulling off her blonde wig and shaking free her own rich mahogany tresses, raking her hands through the tangled locks and massaging the top of her head.

The journey was a long one – and their getaway vehicle was not exactly Grand Prix material – but the last thing they needed or wanted was to attract attention by getting stopped for speeding. For the most part there was silence between them, and after a while Honor switched on the radio, not for the music, but to be sure their activities were not the subject of a news flash.

When the nine o'clock news came and went without comment, she nodded to herself in satisfaction. Apart from Henry's clumsy tackling of the old girl – who had shown far greater resistance than she'd anticipated – things were going more or less exactly to plan.

Honor sniggered softly to herself, as she drew mental pictures of herself as a millionaire, enjoying all the things she had always dreamed of. She'd have her pick of the men too, instead of having to put up with the likes of Henry.

Yes, the eligible bachelors would be queuing up at the door of her country mansion. Life would be sweet, and a million miles from the council estate where she and her four irksome brothers and sisters had grown up crammed in a tiny three-bedroom mid-terrace slum.

As he drove, Henry too was fantasizing about the good life this caper would provide, and thanking his lucky stars that he of all people should meet up with a girl like Honor, who was not just beautiful, but smart and ambitious and who was going to make them richer than he could possibly imagine. She could be a bit hard on him sometimes, but that was mostly his own fault. He found it hard to remember everything he was supposed to do and he couldn't blame her for getting impatient with him. His own mother had reacted to him in much the same way. He was only grateful that Honor bothered with him at all, and he was determined that she wouldn't regret it. He was going to make her proud and happy and be a good husband. His face creased into a grin as broad as a Cheshire cat's. If his Mum could only see him now! She'd always told him he was a loser and wouldn't amount to anything, but he'd struck gold. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he hummed softly to himself the tune of Abba's 'Money, Money, Money'.

Honor smiled a secret smile of her own. She looked out of the window at the night, which though dismal from the torrential rain that hammered on the roof of the van, nevertheless seemed to her the most beautiful night of her life, as her schemes at last began to come to fruition. The streetlights struck the rain soaked windscreen and splattered like searchlights, seeking to put her in the spotlight where she belonged, where she had always belonged.

0o0

Yawning and stretching, Admiral Calavicci shuffled slowly out of the Imaging Chamber.

He was tired. He was worried.

It had been a  _very_  long day. He had every expectation that it was not over yet, not by a long way. He was getting too old for all this. He rubbed his temples as he made his way down the slope, eyes downcast lest his weary feet should miss their step.

"Dr Beckett is not seriously injured, I hope?" came the tentative query from behind the control desk.

"So do I, Gushie, so do I," Al replied, automatically. Without looking up he put his hand link down on its recharging pad and trudged towards the exit, but stopped before he was halfway to the door. He turned on his heels and looked back at the Chief Programmer, whom he'd left – heaven knew how long ago – in the motor pool, nursing a bomb. He tilted his head and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow, as if he doubted the evidence of his own eyes.

" _Gushie?_ "

The little man grinned broadly, enjoying the Observer's double take. "In the flesh, Admiral, and very much alive, I'm happy to report."

"And I'm happy to hear it, Gush." Al's relief reflected in the relaxation of his shoulders. He was Atlas, and Zeus had just permitted him to pass on the weight of the World to another to carry the burden awhile. "But why didn't… uh I told Ziggy to…" the words tumbled from his mouth, tripping on his tongue before he could order them into coherent sentences. There was some slight indignation at being kept in the dark, but more perplexity at Ziggy's less than efficient omission.

Up in the ceiling, a sphere danced with bluey-yellow lightening flashes, like those old crystal ball style globes, which followed the static in your hands as you caressed it. " _I was requested to withhold the information, Admiral. Gushie insisted the revelation would have greater impact if he delivered it in person- vis-à-vis._ "

"You can say that again!" Al gave Gushie a hearty slap on the back.

When first created, Ziggy would have taken such a statement literally and repeated the explanation verbatim somewhat impatiently, but by now she had a whole catalogue of 'just an expression' phrases. It was her considered opinion that human brains were cluttered up with far too much of such trivia, which served only to obscure the facts. Why couldn't people be like computers and simply say exactly what they meant? Things were much more clear-cut to a parallel hybrid computer. For example, she had not mentioned to the Admiral the dramatic moment when Corporal Kincaid – exultant at having defused the bomb – let slip his wire cutters and smashed some casing within the incendiary device. She had not mentioned it for the simple reason that she had not been asked, and deemed it insignificant since the desired outcome had been achieved nonetheless.

Instead, she relegated it to the data storage area of her million-plus terabyte capacity.

Al was not interested in a blow-by-blow account, he was just satisfied that the result had been a positive one. Now he could concentrate his energies on helping Sam.

Well, perhaps not  _right_  now.

His friend was sleeping off a headache, in a lull before what could very easily turn out to be a doozy of a storm. The Observer decided he could do worse than follow suit and have an early night. Since he'd had a belly full of duty, and Tina was still not coming out to play these days, there was little else to do. And the incredibly irregular hours Sam's Leaps forced him to keep meant he'd learnt to snatch sleep whenever the opportunity arose. So, after exchanging a few more sagacity's with Gushie, and having instructed Ziggy to make a note that he was recommending Kincaid for a commendation, Al bade them both a good night and headed for his quarters, knowing Ziggy would wake him if and when Sam had need of him again.

**Los Angeles.**

  
**Sat Jan 4** **th** **2003**  


Studying her reflection in the mirror, the woman smiled. She was looking good; the years were still being kind, even on the wrong side of 30. She finished applying her make up and brushed out her long, sleek, jet-black hair. She would wear it down tonight, she decided, and it was a statement of intent as much as one of fashion. At least  _she_  still knew how to have fun. Stepping over the threshold of her walk-in wardrobe, she picked out a figure hugging evening gown in an eye-catching jade – to match perfectly her own sparkling green eyes. The bodice was sequined, crossing over her firm ample bust and accentuating her slender shoulders as it rose to a halter neck. The satin skirt clung to her hips and followed her long legs down to the ankles, with a slit up the right hand side, which showed a flash of shapely thigh as she sashayed across the floor. Smoothing it down across her model-flat stomach, she picked out her accessories. High heels in the exact same shade; emerald and diamond jewelry that dripped from her ears and neck and adorned her wrist over the long silky gloves, which rose past her elbows and added to the overall impression of commanding height and superiority. Sally believed in power dressing.

One last admiring glance in the mirror and she was ready, picking up her clutch bag which was sequined like her bodice. Her wedding and engagement rings she left on the alabaster hand that reached up out of her dresser.  _If_  he changed his mind and accompanied her, she would come back for them. It would only take a moment.

She found him, predictably, in his den, pouring over some complex computer program that she didn't even pretend to try and understand.

"Well?" she interrogated as she draped herself in the doorway. He did not look up right away, which she was sure was done just to annoy her. When he finally tore himself away, swiveling round in his chair to face her, he smiled, and his eyes widened in genuine appreciation.

"Wow, you look knock out!"

Hope soared within for precious seconds, and she asked in an eager tone, "Are you coming then?" Only to evaporate as he half turned back to his precious machine.

"Aw, not tonight darling." He looked at her over his shoulder, eyes bright and excited as a kid on the way to Disneyland. "I'm getting some real good results here." He began tapping at the keys again. "You go ahead. Have yourself a great time. I can't leave this now. If only I can iron these bugs out…" he was talking to himself more than to his wife, and didn't even notice when, with an 'oh well, his loss' shrug of her shoulders, she turned on her heels and slunk away.

**QLHQ.**

  
**Sunday Jan 5** **th** **2003**  


Admiral Albert Calavicci had no need to wait for his alarm to sound reveille.

By 04:00 hours he was wide-awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for the day. A good sound sleep, coupled with the relief of knowing that QLHQ had not been blown to kingdom come meant that he was in a very positive frame of mind. He showered and shaved and found himself a jaunty outfit to match his mood. The emerald green suit had broad lapels, and upon the left a four-leaf clover badge edged in gilt bore witness to his sailor's superstitious nature. Suede shoes matched the shade to perfection. The shirt was diagonally threaded through with gold filigree in both directions, to form diamonds. The tie was an undulating green-and-gold banded snake, which coiled its way around his neck and flicked out its forked tongue at his belt.

He ate a hearty breakfast at an uncommonly leisurely pace, and by the time most of the rest of the complex was stirring from their slumbers, he had seriously depleted the contents of his "IN" tray. Then, having established with Ziggy that Sam – being on Greenwich Mean, 1988, Time, – was not yet in urgent need of a wake up call, he decided it was high time he made his obligatory visit to the Waiting Room. It was possible that Mary may have retained some scrap of knowledge that could be useful to her impersonator. Al had an uneasy feeling that Sam was going to need all the help he could get on this one.

So it was that at 09:00 hours, cigar in hand and brushed velvet fedora set at a rakish angle on his head, Al stepped purposefully in to meet the milesian Mrs. Mary McGillicuddy.

As usual, she had received the briefest of explanations as to her current circumstances, strictly need-to-know, but at least she hadn't collapsed with the screaming hab-dabs and required sedating as some did, unable to cope with even the little they were allowed to grasp. In fact, Dr Beeks had told him she was a very levelheaded woman, who had accepted her situation calmly.

Al was therefore somewhat taken aback by her reaction when he entered the room. She took one look, stood up, took another look – wide eyed and incredulous – sat back down, crossed herself, and pronounced, "Oh boy, it's a leprechaun!"

Given that such creatures are traditionally portrayed as wizened old men, Al's first instinct was to be offended. Then he looked at the twinkle in her eyes, and afterward down at his emerald green attire, and he had to admit that subconsciously he  _had_  dressed the part. He burst out laughing, and doffed his hat to her.

"At your service, my dear. 'Though I can't give you a crock of gold if you catch me!"

"Come to think of it," she retorted, "that's the wrong sort of hat. And where's your dudheen? Since when have the little people been smoking cigars?" She laughed merrily. Al decided he liked Mary. Not in the way he normally took to members of the fair sex, but with the affection one felt for a favorite maiden aunt. Grinning broadly, he introduced himself and she patted the bed on which she sat, inviting him to join her.

"I've been expecting you," she informed him. "I've heard  _all_  about you." Her tone was a mischievous tease.

"You –you have? Well don't… I mean you don't want to…. That is…" Al spluttered and squirmed and Mary laughed again.

"Don't worry Admiral," she reassured, smiling Sam's disarming smile, "I've been looking forward to our little chat." Just as Sam had absorbed much of her strong Irish brogue, so correspondingly had it diminished in her, and she spoke with a curious mix of Sam's comparatively mild American accent and a mere trace of her own. It was this duality in their guests that generally made Al so reluctant to socialize. He was the only one who retained an awareness of both personalities when speaking to each of the displaced persons.

It made it hard for him.

Sometimes it made it damned hard...

...Perceiving his best friend as the sensational Samantha Stormer, he had made Ziggy tweak their neural link, and then been faced with seeing Sam's reproving looks behind her come-to-bed eyes...

...Then seeing clearly the pure crazed murderous hatred of Leon Styles pulling the trigger to kill him, with Sam's hand on the gun, Sam's face gloating as he fell. Knowing full well it wasn't Sam, yet still the feeling of betrayal hurt more than the bullet slamming into the flak jacket...

...Not to mention the most unnerving experience of all, strolling into the Waiting Room expecting to confront Sam's familiar form, and seeing within his friend's features an infinitely more familiar face looking back at him – a face from his past; his own face - some forty odd years younger - but unmistakably himself.

Now he sat beside Mary, and began as always with the banal queries. Was she comfortable? Were they feeding her properly? Did she have any complaints? She replied that she had been through all this with "that lovely Dr Beeks" and reiterated that she was in excellent health, and spirits, save for her concern for the children she was neglecting by not being there. Initial reassurances as to their well-being had become vague mumblings and changed subjects. She knew that something was amiss and now demanded to be told what it was. Her determined expression was at once both typical Sam Beckett and pure Irish Nanny, and neither would brook any prevarication when they required answers.

So Al came clean.

"…but Sam is gonna get them back, for sure," he concluded, asserting the inevitability of this outcome as much to convince himself as to placate Mary, whose hands had flown to her face in horror at the news of the kidnap, and had remained there as the story unfolded.

"He'd better, Mister," she proclaimed, lowering her hands to form fists, which she shook menacingly in Al's face. "I love those girls like they was me own, you know." A wistful look crept across her face, and she reached out to touch Al's arm, holding his eyes with her own.

She spoke softly now, but earnestly, "We can't let anything happen to them. I've raised them both. Been a mother to them all through. And  _their_  mother before them, did you know that?"

Al shook his head, reading both great pride and a deep sadness in her expression. Beeks was usually the one to conduct the therapy sessions, but he sensed her need to talk, and he knew how to be a good listener when the occasion arose, especially if it might give Sam an edge. Patting her gently on the hand, he encouraged her to tell him all about it, whatever she could remember.

"I've always loved children," she began, "come from a big family, see. There was Michael and Patrick, and then meself," she was counting them off on her fingers, "After that came the twins, Clodagh and Kathleen, then Colm and Bernadette and little Bridie. Mother died giving birth to our Bridie, and being the eldest girl I sorta took over mothering them all after that."

"How old were you?" asked Al sympathetically, remembering how he'd had to look out for his little sister.

"Nearly nine." Mary evidently thought that nine was quite mature enough to take on the responsibilities of a ready-made family.

"I enjoyed it," she asserted when she noticed Al's shocked expression. "No, really I did. Sure 'n' it was hard work, and I didna get much time t'meself, but we all pulled together and did our share. It felt good to be needed. The weans depended on me, looked up to me. What else was I to do, tell me that? Let them split us up? Put us in all in different Homes?"

Al shuddered. NO. That was not an option to be accepted lightly. Family should not be divided.

His expression was one of awe and admiration. No wonder she was so level headed and calm in time of crisis. She had done her growing up early; taken a great weight onto her young shoulders.

"What about your father?" he asked, afraid he could predict what the answer would be. He knew all about single parents who couldn't cope. He'd been down that road.

"He worked hard in the fields to put food on the table, but my Da was also fond of a drop o' the poteen. Oh, he never beat us," she hastened to prevent Al from jumping to this obvious conclusion. "He loved us. It was just that he spent most of his time at home asleep. He did his best, but sometimes it was like having one more big brother to take care of." There wasn't a trace of bitterness or resentment in her tone, only a little sadness.

"So, you really  _have_  been a Nanny/Housekeeper all your life." Al observed. "When did you find the time to get married?" He chuckled, and then choked on it as he saw a tear form in the corner of her eye. Perhaps he should have extracted more background information from Ziggy first. He usually did, but then things had been altogether topsy-turvy about this Leap from the start.

He began to stammer an embarrassed apology for putting his mouth into gear before engaging his brain, but she dismissed it with a matronly pat on his knee.

"Don't distress yourself, Admiral. 'Tis all water under the bridge now."

"Please, call me Al," he instructed. "'Admiral' is so formal, don't you think? Especially for a leprechaun!" he made a sweeping gesture from head to foot, indicating his garb.

At that Mary laughed again and Al thought once more how much he liked the old girl.

Not wanting the conversation to end; fascinated by her amazing life story, and still mindful enough of his duty that he hoped to glean something to Sam's advantage, Al urged her to tell him more.

Normally, their 'guests' suffered the same Swiss-cheesing of the brain that plagued Sam. Mary appeared to have total recall. It was a pretty safe bet that GFTW wanted it that way for a reason.

"How did you come to be with the Stricklands? Through the mother, you said? Manhattan is a long way…"

"To Tipperary?" interrupted Mary, with an infectious giggle that Al couldn't help but echo.

It was rare and refreshing to meet someone with his own impish sense of humor. Al gave back the question "Cue for a song?" and took a deep breath ready to comply.

Mary simply laughed again and turned to look at him. "You remind me of my Dermot," she informed him. "He used to go out fishing the bay on his Da's boat. I'd watch him when I took the weans to the beach for a paddle. (It kept them clean!)" She whispered this last confidentially, with a 'know what I mean?' nudge. Al supposed that their farmhouse would have been pretty basic in its amenities in those days. If she could clean them up while they had fun, then why not? Her job must have been tough enough; she deserved the odd short cut.

"He used to serenade me as he sailed back to shore. 'When Irish eyes are smiling'." She sang a few lines, swaying gently, her head tilted to one side, eyes staring across the room as if she could see in the distance her sweetheart coming in with the tide. "He had the voice of an angel, my Dermot," she concluded, wistfully. Hearing Sam's mellow tones singing the refrain, Al could almost picture the scene. It was the sort of charming old-world love story that Hollywood musicals were made of.

"I was nineteen when we got wed." Mary reminisced, "Dermot was all of 21. Then after a year, he persuaded me we should move to the mainland to seek our fortunes. I left the twins to look after the farm and Da and the young 'uns, and came to London with Dermot to find work. I thought if I could send money home, it would be more help than staying and struggling on what little we had. Dermot promised it would be a great adventure, a wonderful new life. At first it was. It was so different to life in the old country, and Dermot soon found work as a hod-carrier on a building site. I started by offering my services as a baby sitter to the neighbors. We had a cosy little place, and were ready to start a family of our own."

Al could hear the "but" ringing loud in his ears. It didn't take a clairvoyant or a hybrid computer to predict that this blissful marriage wasn't destined for a Golden Anniversary. He hardly dared to ask: "What happened?"

"It was nearly Christmas and I was three months pregnant. We had never been happier. We were looking forward to '53 with the promise that it would be the best year of our lives." She rubbed at the third finger of her left hand, a finger that should have borne a gold wedding band. Her nervous movements showed she was disconcerted not to find it there.

Al closed his own hands over hers, stilling the busy fingers. "You don't  _have_  to tell me."

A crooked half-smile. " **I**  don't believe in bottling up feelings –  _especially_  grief. That's the cause of many a heartache in itself, so it is."

She pronounced this with such vehemence that Al was startled. He'd touched a raw nerve.

Ziggy - who was monitoring the conversation discreetly - marked the attitude in her memory banks with a double asterisk.

"Dermot was working overtime, earning extra money for the baby. There was an accident at the building site," Mary resumed her narrative, her eyes moist with tears as she relived it; "Dermot fell from some scaffolding: broke his neck."

"The baby must have been a great comfort to you."

"I miscarried."

Matter of fact, these things happen tone of voice, but with such profound sorrow in her eyes that Al felt compelled to fold her in his arms and hug her. It was a purely fraternal hug, which was a reaction he was not well acquainted with. 'I'm starting to act like Sam,' he mused, wishing his friend were truly there – in either role – rather than just his aura.

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry," offered Al inadequately, expressing regret both for her tragedy and for his insensitivity in raking it up. He handed Mary the handkerchief from his breast pocket and she wiped her eyes, accepting his apology with a wan smile, and a dismissive wave of the hand.

"I was twenty-one years old, a widow alone in a strange town with no money to get home. I didn'a have much in the way of education – save what life taught me along the way – but I had the luck o' the Irish, and that's Luck Enough. Come the New Year, I had the good fortune to land a job as Nanny for Howard Wexler, a diplomat at the American Embassy in London. He and his wife had a daughter of two, Rachel, and a newborn son, Daniel. Their old Nanny had quit suddenly to go and nurse an elderly relative back in the States. After all my brothers and sisters them two was easy to care for, even though Rachel was a sickly child. She had kidney trouble, but we didn't know about that until much later. Then little Joseph came along in '56, but he weren't no trouble at all."

"They were happy years," she went on. "I was treated like one of the family."

She smiled nostalgically. "And when Mr. Wexler was recalled to America in '61, they took me with them. I raised those three children like they was me own, and kept house for the family while their parents were out socializing and being diplomatic with all the big-wigs." She exchanged sniggers with Al.

From her tone, her attitude to official functions mirrored his own. Though a full Admiral and adept at "being diplomatic" in the right quarters when the devil drove, deep down in his heart he was still the irreverent Ensign who believed anyone above the rank of Lieutenant was a horse's ass.

"You're my kind of woman, Mrs. M," he told her.

"Mary." She insisted, and then continued her potted autobiography. "So, anyway, it was by providence that just when I was starting to miss having weans under me feet, seeing as Joey was fifteen an' all, Rachel went and got herself married to Lyle Strickland. Oh, but she made a beautiful bride did my Rachel. She persuaded her parents that she had more need of me than they did. She couldn't wait to start a family. Only it wasn't to be so simple." Mary lowered her head, staring at her hands in her lap, the sadness back in her eyes.

"Her kidneys had been getting steadily worse over the years, until – in '76 it was – they failed completely. Both of them, would you believe it? It's not so rare as you'd think, so it seems. We thought we'd lost her," her voice cracked momentarily, "but the doctors were wonderful, and Heaven be praised she got a transplant just in time. It really did make a new woman of her."

Now the eyes sparkled, the tears were of joy. "She had so much more energy, and color in her cheeks, and soon she was saying that I'd be a Nanny again instead of a Nurse. Still it was a couple of years before she conceived successfully. You've never seen a happier couple than when little Shelley Anne was finally born. Then when Tori came along in '81 we  _thought_  everything was perfect." Her slight inflection on the word made it clear that they would be forced to think again.

Al felt as if he were on a roller coaster as he followed Mary through the ups and downs of her career, marveling at the way she triumphed over tragedy time and again.

He had a sudden compulsion to find out what she had done in the original history, when her latest fledglings were so cruelly ripped from her nest. Surreptitiously punching the query into his hand-link, he was soon able to sneak a peek at his answer. She too had fought the kidnappers, and been knocked out, sustaining a skull fracture, but had not regained her senses before the ambulance had been called. She was in hospital when news of the girl's deaths was brought to her. Strickland's suicide left her the sole heir to his fortune, but rather than relax in well deserved retirement, she had used the money to convert his enormous home into an orphanage, which she had run with the help of her sisters until her death at the ripe old age of 103.

Somehow, Al was not in the least surprised.

Returning his attention to her narrative, he asked her with mounting dread,

"What went wrong?"

"The strain of carrying Tori and giving birth was the trigger, they said. Rachel's graft kidney began to fail; she was suddenly rejecting it. It sometimes happens even after a number of years, so they told us. Lyle brought the family to England for Easter in '82, in the hope that a holiday, a change of air, would buck her up. She had this puzzle book he bought her for Shelley's first birthday. It was a sort of treasure hunt thing for a jeweled hare that had been buried the day Shelley was born. The idea captured Rachel's imagination and she'd tried hard to solve the riddles. She was a clever little colleen was Rachel. They were going to explore together, see if they could track it down. Only it backfired. She was  _that_  close," Mary held her thumb and forefinger a fraction apart to indicate extreme proximity, "when it was announced that the Hare had been found. She was so bitterly disappointed to have been beaten; it seemed to take all the fight out of her. She just sort of gave up, and before we knew what was happening, she had succumbed to some infection. It took her from us in the blink of an eye."

Mary sobbed then, her shoulders heaving with grief. Al offered what little comfort he could, feeling the keenness of her sorrow, wondering again at the cruelty of the hand life had dealt her, and silently re-affirming his promise that Sam would not let this fine woman suffer further tragic loss.

"Poor wee Tori was only 6 months old. She doesn't even remember Rachel. I'm the closest thing to a mother she's ever known." Mary shook her head slowly at the injustice of it, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief and sniffing.

In the normal course of events, Al found a woman's tears embarrassing, annoying or arousing. Hearing Mary's melancholic tale, he merely found hers profoundly moving and he encouraged her to let loose her sadness and frustration. He told her that Tori could not have found a better surrogate in all the world. He didn't need to be a shrink to see that her role was that of the strong uniting force that kept everyone else going through each successive crisis. She probably seldom allowed herself the luxury of breaking down and letting go. Then he held her gently in his arms while she cried a lifetime of hurt and sorrow. He was again amazed by his own purely platonic gesture, notwithstanding the fact that it appeared in some measure to be Sam's frame he was hugging.

'I must be mellowing in my old age,' he thought.

He felt that they were kindred spirits, he and Mary. Both had been given a pretty rough deal all told, and faced with such adversities a person either went under or got tough. They had gotten tough, but it didn't stop them from feeling the wounds that ran deep within. He wanted to let her know he understood, and allowing her this release was the best way he knew how.

When she was all cried out, she dried her eyes and patted his arm.

"Bless you, Al. I feel better for that," she told him. Confirming his assessment of her as having to be a rock for the family's benefit, she told him that he was, however, absolutely wrong to assume she bottled up her emotions.

There was a hint of reproach in her voice, yet Al sensed it was not aimed at him. On the contrary, she affirmed, she believed devoutly in sharing grief and talking openly about feelings. It was nevertheless a welcome change for someone  _else_  to be the shoulder for  _her_  to cry on and she was grateful for his indulgence of a "silly old woman".

Al shook his head.

"Oh no, no, no. There's  _nothing_  silly about you, Mary McGillicuddy," he told her firmly. "If I'm any judge – and I like to think I'm a  _very_   _good_  judge when it comes to women – you are a regular Minerva. You've a very wise head on those shoulders."

"An' if'n I'm not much mistaken, you're no eejut yersel', Albert." She nudged him in the ribs, smiling once more. "I think you and I shall be good friends while I'm here, so I do."

"I'd like that, Mary," replied Al sincerely, "I really would."

0o0

When Ziggy alerted him that it was time he checked in with Sam, Al headed for the Imaging Chamber with a huge grin on his face and a lightness of step that verged on an Irish jig. He was in such a good mood that he didn't even chew out the Corporal on guard duty for being slow to salute him as he left the Waiting Room. The more so when he noticed it was Kincaid.

"Damn fine job you did yesterday, Corporal. Damn fine." He congratulated the young man warmly.

Rusty blushed freely right across his freckled face and looked nervously at his feet, mumbling an unintelligible reply. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when the Admiral danced on down the corridor without further comment, then tugged at his tie agitatedly as if it were choking him.

Watching Al's elated exit from her hiding place in the shadows, Tina stamped a petulant foot. These days it seemed her paramour would rather spend time with another woman –  **any**  other woman (even one that looked like a man for Chrissakes!) – than be with her. Heaven alone knew what he could possibly have found to  _talk_  about all that time. He was up to something. Or he was avoiding her. Well, two could play at that game. There were others around who appreciated her, even if  **he**  didn't.

She'd show him.

By the time she'd finished with him, he'd be laughing on the other side of his face. She'd wipe that smug self-satisfied smile right off and no mistake. With a 'harumph', Tina stalked off to hook the bait with which to reel in the errant Admiral.


	7. Chapter 7

  
**Thursday 1st** **December 1988.**  


  
**London**.

Sam was still lying on the four-poster bed when Al arrived.

"Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine. Up and at 'em," ordered the Admiral brightly.

Sam stirred, moaning softly. He was still fully clothed. The duvet was in a state of disarray around him, evidence of a restless night. There was a bowl on the floor with a little water in it. Al didn't need to be able to smell it to work out that there was probably disinfectant in there too. Sam's head injury had evidently led to him being sick.

Now Sam curled up on his right side. His lower arm slid beneath the pillow, bunching it up under his ear. The left coiled round his face, cradling his head, cupping the injured area in his hand, so that he resembled a duck with his head tucked beneath his wing.

"C'mon, Sam. Another day, another dollar – you got work to do, buddy."

"Go'way," mumbled Sam shifting position again in a futile attempt to get comfortable, and grunting with the effort.

"Quit playing for sympathy, Sam and get up. Ziggy says the kidnappers are gonna make contact soon." Al wanted to believe his friend was just yanking his chain, but the dried blood in Sam's hair and the tension, which oozed from every pore, told a different story. The mention of kidnappers had penetrated his befuddled brain, however, and the Leaper roused himself reluctantly, turning bleary eyed towards the sound of Al's voice.

"Okay, okay, Oi'm up, Oi'm up. Just give me a minute, will ya?" Sam rubbed his eyes, willing them to focus. "Oh, me aching heed," he complained. An unbearable tightness scraped at his scalp. He had the sensation of someone pulling his hair out – one root at a time. Unlike Al, he was not at all rested or refreshed from his night in bed. He couldn't say "night's sleep" for he had not slept above a few scant minutes at a stretch all night. Each time he sank into oblivion, the stabbing in his head dug down and found him, dredging him back up to all too painful awareness. Nausea had turned to repeated vomiting, until the meal he'd enjoyed with the girls had been thoroughly expelled from his system, leaving him feeling utterly wretched and even more exhausted than before.

The hours had dragged frustratingly, yet paradoxically he could not conceive that it was already time to arise and face another day. He was grateful that he'd closed the drapes whilst concluding his unpacking the previous evening - was it as recent as that? They kept out the morning sunshine, which though weakened by the season, would still have been too powerful for his poor pounding brain to endure.

Sam was still intermittently rubbing his eyes, and despite his assurance to the contrary he had made no attempt whatsoever to get out of bed, or even to sit up. Al was growing increasingly concerned by Sam's reticence. He punched the hand link, trying to establish if his friend's condition had deteriorated. He didn't need Sam's medical degree to know how tricky head-wounds could be. At the same time he requested the information from the horse's mouth.

"What's wrong kid?"

"Can't see straight. Like Oi'm looking trew a veil," Sam muttered, renewing his rubbing.

"Is that all?" Al's voice reflected his relief; he caught a laugh in his throat. "You are, dummy," he teased, "the net curtain, remember?" He stuck his holographic head through the lace that surrounded the bed, a big beaming grin on his face. It didn't have quite the reassuring effect he'd expected, however.

Sam recoiled with a cry.

"Aargh, don't do that!" He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed up his eyes, then, wrinkling his nose in distaste, he peered through hooded eyes at Al.

"Doesn't help," he declared. "Are ya sure you're tuned in to the right channel?"

More button pushing established that Al was, indeed, properly locked into Sam's brainwaves. It also provided him with a prognosis from Ziggy, who informed the Admiral matter-of-factly that Dr Beckett had – as already stated – sustained a fractured skull and should seek medical attention forthwith or she, Ziggy, would not be held accountable for the consequences.

'Which tells me precisely nothing,' thought Al. Now, instead of encouraging Sam to take up the call to arms, Al's concerns for his friend's welfare made him seek to keep the Leaper abed and call a doctor.

Contrarily, this was the suggestion that spurred Sam into action. Self-interest was never one of his strongest motivators, and besides, the vision of the two young girls he'd shared such happy hours with lying so horribly murdered returned now to haunt him.

"No can do," he informed Al in response to his suggestion. He disentangled himself from the bedcovers and got up – in the most unorthodox manner Al had ever witnessed. Still uncoordinated, and unwilling to subject his throbbing head to the forces of gravity, he swung his legs out first, and then the rest of his body rolled after, leaving his head flat on the pillow until the last possible moment. He ended up on all fours, swaying precariously. This position being untenable, he sank back on his ankles, slowly raising up his torso, grabbing at the bed and leaning against it as the room span wildly before his unfocused eyes. He drew in three or four deep breaths then, gritting his teeth; he rocked forward and hauled himself to his feet, pushing on the bed to provide a fulcrum for the leverage of his arms. Once upright, he staggered woozily backwards a couple of paces, and hooked his arms round the bedpost for support, as a drunk caresses a lamppost.

"Steady, Sam," cautioned Al, instinctively reaching out to do just that – frustrated as always by his inability to lend practical assistance. "Are you sure you're up for this, buddy? You  _really_  don't look so good you know."

Sam clung on tighter still, white knuckled, his head resting against the bedpost, eyes closed, panting. Then he swallowed hard and lifted his head to look at Al.

Mary's Irish brogue was ever strong on his tongue, much to his continued bemusement. "Sure'n Oi've felt better, an' dat's a fact." He blinked slowly, still struggling to make his eyes function within normal parameters. "But it seems t'me Oi've felt a whole lot worse too in me time." He paused momentarily, as if daring Al to refute it, and then he continued, "And just supposin' fer a moment I  _was_  t' say Oi didna feel loike goin' trew with it. What odds would Ziggy put on me being able to sit this one out altogether, d'ye t'ink?" he gave his friend a mildly patronizing stare.

Al reflexively began pushing buttons, then stopped short and looked up at Sam, sheepishly. "Point taken, buddy. Just go easy, huh?"

"Doubt if Oi can manage much else." Somewhere in the canyons of his brain a cyclone was raging and the lure of the bed to which he still clung was strong, but his look was one of determination.

"Have Oi got time for a quick shower? It moight make me feel a bit more human."

"Sure thing. Go for it. I'll come back in good time for the call. Hang in there, Sam." Al looked at his friend compassionately.

Sam managed to extricate one arm from the support post, and gave a half-hearted thumbs-up, before feeling his way around the furniture to the en-suite.

Al watched him go, his heart in his mouth as he witnessed each faltering step, expecting at any moment to see Sam fall flat on his face. He waited until the Time Traveler disappeared through the bathroom door and then keyed in his own door and left.

0o0

The shower invigorated Sam more than he dared hope, though less than he would have wished. After the initial torture of washing congealed blood out of his hair, wincing and gasping as he rubbed in the shampoo, he basked in the feel of the water on his face and body. By the time he stepped out and dried off, he was walking more or less steadily, without the aid of walls or fittings.

He could see well enough to pick out a coordinating salmon pink outfit of twin set and skirt from Mary's wardrobe – though he most emphatically left the bra and girdle lying idle in the drawer. He even coped with scrubbing the stubborn bloodstains out of yesterday's ensemble. The only hitch in the proceedings came when he sat down at the dresser to brush his hair. As the stiff bristles made contact with the back of his head, the unbearable pressure made him dizzy, and he fumbled with the brush, before dropping it on the carpet.

Bending automatically to retrieve it induced a sudden wave of renewed nausea and he struggled to maintain his equilibrium. He grabbed at the dresser and fought to control his breathing as the room swirled around him, silently cursing his folly.

Looking at Mary's distorted reflection in the mirror, he implored her, "Remind me not to do dat again in a hurry, would ya, Mary?" Elbows on the dresser, he crossed his arms and slumped forward onto them, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding in his brain to subside. It seemed to take forever before the pain eased enough for him to dare to sit up.

Even longer before he felt brave enough to get to his feet.

When he did, he proceeded haltingly, pausing every three or four paces to check his balance and make sure he was still heading in the right direction. In this manner, he weaved his way into the dining room, where he came face to face with his employer, Lyle Strickland.

This morning, the businessman was wearing a double-breasted gabardine suit in air force blue, well cut and very fetching. Had he not been distracted by even more physical considerations, Sam may have spared a moment to wish the suit were his, rather than the pleated tweed skirt he bore.

As it was his attention was focused on making his way over to join Strickland at the table by the window, where he was having breakfast. Not that Sam was hungry. In fact the smell of fried egg, bacon and sausage wafting up form Lyle's plate made him feel queasy again, but the stability of the wheel-back chair only a short distance before him was too great a temptation to ignore.

"Ah, Mary. Join me for breakfast. Feeling better this morning?" Strickland had been bent over his repast, and poring over the morning's edition of the Financial Times. He registered Sam's arrival from the corner of his eye, and half rose from his seat politely, without really looking up. His whole demeanor was as if yesterday had never happened and Mary was suffering nothing worse than a head cold. Sam detected none of the stress he would have expected from a man whose daughters were under sentence of death.

However, since the Leaper was unsure how accurately his powers of perception were operating, he gave the man the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Outside the window, the dawn sunshine had been swallowed up by dark, menacing clouds, and spots of rain began to tap on the glass and dance on the balcony.

They echoed the drumming in Sam's head.

He eased himself gratefully into the chair, carefully pouring himself a cup of black coffee. It was with some slight satisfaction he noticed that less than a quarter spilt in the saucer.

Lyle ignored him while he sipped slowly at the coffee, relieved that it stayed down. After a while Sam even risked a slice of dry toast and with each successive mouthful he felt himself regaining some degree of normalcy.

His doubts about the girls' father were growing, however.

The man had finished his disgustingly greasy meal without once taking his eyes from the peachy pink pages of the newspaper he was reading and making no attempt to communicate, beyond the odd mumbling of pleasure or annoyance – to himself rather than Sam – about the rise or fall or various share prices. For all the attention he paid, Mary could have been a character on the TV screen, and the children non-existent.

Last night, Sam had thought he'd seen a loving father, frantic with concern for his offspring.

Yet this morning…?

Come to think of it, the man's reactions had struck him as strange even at first, but he had attributed that to the blow to his brain. Sam was still not in full possession of his extensive faculties, so perhaps he was making something of nothing, but his instinct told him that all was not as it should be. He recalled Shelley-Anne's panic when he'd found her mother's book. Could the divorce be even more acrimonious than he'd guessed? Sam envisaged the situation: Father gets to take the children on holiday, doesn't intend to surrender custody on their return to the States. He stages a kidnapping to throw the wife off the scent, enabling them to start afresh someplace else. Maybe even arranges their "murder" to prevent the mother from pursuing them. Only there is a falling out with the "kidnappers" or a misunderstanding as to his intentions, and the poor little pawns wind up dead for real. No wonder the grief stricken father had taken his own life, burdened by the guilt of knowing he'd effectively killed the two people he loved most in the entire world. Except that at this juncture, he was sitting there, supremely confident that he was pulling off the perfect ruse to put one over on an ex-wife who was trying to keep him from his girls. No need to worry, everything was under control.  _His_  control.

Sam looked across the table, seeking confirmation of his hypothesis in the man's bearing or his face. He tried to think back to the previous evening, to put his finger on what it had been about Strickland's behavior that had aroused his suspicions. Something had definitely been amiss. Yet, looking back, if Lyle had been expecting the ransom note then he was a consummate actor, for he'd deceived not only one confused, concussed imposter, but also a professional Observer who was nobody's fool. And if he'd gone to such lengths to put on an act then, why was he making so little effort now? It didn't add up and Sam was almost certain that his temporary mental handicap was not exclusively to blame.

The Leaper realized that if he were going to stand any chance of making headway he would have to make his presence felt. Somehow he didn't think starting a polite conversation about the British weather would do the trick. If he wanted to succeed in drawing this fellow out from the world of high finance into which he'd disappeared, it would take something much more dramatic.

Sam remembered how Al had congratulated him for exaggerating the previous evening when in fact  _he_  felt he had been playing down his condition. No matter, the point being that since he  _was_  still suffering, he may as well turn the situation to his advantage. Once more the simple truth would suffice, with only the merest hint of embellishment for flavoring. So Dr. Beckett took a deep breath and prepared to do one of the things he hated most – draw attention to himself.

He began by clattering his empty coffee-cup clumsily back into its saucer, which as he'd suspected didn't even register with the other man.

Next, he excused himself from the table and began to rise slowly to his feet. He gambled that Strickland's in-bred civility would have him mirror the action, as indeed he did, though still automatically without actually looking up. So, before Lyle could resume his seat, Sam deliberately caught the leg of his own chair with his foot, flipping it over behind him and leaving him swaying precariously. With a louder cry than was strictly necessary he grabbed at the table, 'accidentally' knocking over the milk jug. Sam was relieved on two levels when his companion sprang round to catch him before he crumpled to the floor, and then helped him over to the couch.

"I think maybe I should call you a doctor after all, Mary." The employer's concern  _sounded_  genuine, even if Sam couldn't make out his expression clearly enough to confirm it.

'You  _should_  call me a Doctor, after all I am one!' thought Sam irrelevantly.

"Dere's no need, really," Sam reassured him aloud, if half-heartedly. "Oi'll be foine in a tick. Just stood up too quick, so Oi did." As an opening to a discussion of the magnitude Sam had in mind, it was pretty feeble, but at least he had the man's full and undivided attention at last. It even looked for a moment as if Strickland was going to pull rank and insist, but Sam forestalled him.

"Oi've a lump on me heed as big as a goose egg, t'be sure, and the granddaddy of all headaches, but we've more important t'ings t' worry about just now, have we not?"

It was a challenge.

Lyle sat down on the couch next to Mary and put his head in his hands.

"I spent the whole night worrying," he confessed forlornly, alleviating Sam's suspicions to some degree, "I  _told_  you we should never have come back to this goddamn country." Then almost at once the other man backed off again, clearing his throat and straightening up. He rose to his feet, squared his shoulders and strode away.

"Then I remembered, you promised you'd get them home for me. So I figured I have nothing to worry about, right. Have I?"

There was no hint of sarcasm or teasing in his tone. It was sheer self-deception. His expression of blind faith in Nanny's ability to make everything all right was pure Christopher Robin. He was the little boy who'd fallen from the apple tree and scraped his knee, and Nanny was going to dry his eyes and kiss him better.

Pathetic - in the truest sense of the word.

With a flash of insight, Sam realized where Strickland was coming from.

In his working life Lyle was the confident, capable businessman, accustomed to manipulating people and events to his own considerable advantage. At home, it was a different story. He was out of his depth with family matters, relying totally on Mary to keep things on an even keel. When things went a little awry, he didn't get bothered with details – a busy man with loftier matters on his mind. So when they went badly wrong, he couldn't conceive of the consequences. And if the thought was unbearable, then don't think it. Bury your head in the sand and pretend it is not really happening. Ignore it and it will go away. That was why he'd been so engrossed in his newspaper. It kept him from having to address the really important issues. Classic avoidance.

Sam wanted to get hold of the man and shake him and shout at him: "Get real!"

But even if he could have overcome his lethargy enough to complete the maneuver, he didn't think it was the sort of behavior appropriate to a woman in his subservient position. Whilst he was pondering a more suitable response, a loud rap on the door interrupted them. Sam stirred himself to answer it; mindful of his adopted duties, and expecting the awaited contact from the kidnappers.

A dismissive wave of Strickland's hand bade Sam retain his seat, while he turned and barked, "Come."

At this the door opened to admit a lean young man in his late twenties. His features and complexion suggested West African ancestry, though his accent when he spoke was positively Brooklyn.

"I have dose figures you requested, Mr. Strickland."

With which he handed over a wad of papers to his employer and hovered at his shoulder while they were perused, oblivious to Sam's presence. Summing up the close cropped wiry black hair, the Navy blue suit with sharply creased trousers, the whole bearing of the newcomer, Sam tagged him as Strickland's P.A. Quietly efficient, capable and affable, deferential without being obsequious, Sam felt the young man well suited to the task.

Whilst Sam sat silently nursing his relentlessly aching head, the two men muttered and mumbled over their fact-sheets in close conference, moving over to the writing desk to consult the incongruously modern calculator Strickland had placed there. After several minutes, the muted conversation ceased and Strickland dismissed his companion, "Get on it right away, Otis."

"Yessir," replied the young man smartly, and headed for the door, turning back as Strickland added, "And get that smarmy redhead on Reception to check up on the limo. I want it here in good time. 'First meeting's at 10 sharp."

"Yessir." Otis left, closing the door behind him.

This encounter raised a barrage of new questions for Sam, who had deliberately kept a low profile during the exchange. He had no idea what relationship, if any, existed between Otis and Mary. He may have simply been preoccupied and not noticed the old woman, or they may just move in different circles and not even be on speaking terms. This option the Leaper deemed to be unlikely if Otis had been Strickland's assistant for any length of time, as seemed to be the case, but Sam was unwilling to risk any social gaffes in the face of so little information. He could always attribute 'Mary's' rudeness to the head injury, if Otis later commented on her lack of interaction.

Sam had been unable to form much of an impression of the man beyond his professional capabilities. Was he totally trustworthy? Had he even been told of Lyle's personal problems, or was his involvement strictly business? Did he really enjoy his work, or was it all a façade? Could he be nursing a secret grudge – underpaid, undervalued? Enough to plot a kidnapping to get his boss to give him what he felt he was owed? Sam couldn't help suspecting some form of 'inside job'. After all, the villains had known who and when to strike, and the family hadn't been in the country very long.

Otis looked to be a personable, honest young man, but Sam knew better than most the folly of judging by appearances. He - who was a human chameleon, constantly changing his camouflage to blend in with his surroundings. He looked at himself now, in his tweed skirt and twin-set, and thought he was behaving more like Miss Marple than Mary McGillicuddy, seeing suspects coming out of the woodwork, trusting no-one, expecting every smile to be hiding a crocodile's jaws. He would reserve judgment on Otis for now, though his inclination was to believe the young man innocent.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. It was a philosophy that had served to keep him alive on more than one occasion. Sam started wishing that his invisible informant would deign to show his face again, supplementing the suppositions with a few sound facts.

At that precise moment, as in the previous leap, Al turned up like a genie summoned from his lamp, materializing in the centre of the grand piano.

Glancing at his bisected torso, Al hastily moved forward, making a note of Lyle's position at the writing desk, where he was still deeply engrossed in the papers Otis had brought him. The Observer did not think they needed to make the usual exit to the men's room. If Sam kept his voice down, Al was sure that they could talk without disturbing Strickland. He pretended to perch on the coffee table so that he could converse with his friend at eye level, clearing his throat to attract Sam's attention.

"Earth calling Dr. Beckett. What planet you on, buddy?"

Sam looked up, wearily, "Oh, hi, Al." he muttered.

"How d'ya feel, Sam?" Al had been hoping for a perkier response by now, despite the constant warnings from Ziggy.

"How do Oi look?" countered Sam.

"Quite frankly, pal, I'd say somewhere on the down side of lousy," observed the Admiral.

"Yeah? Dat's roughly aboot how Oi feel," agreed Sam. "What news?"

"Ziggy says the phone's gonna ring any time now. We still have no idea where the girls are currently being held, but the odds are still way up there on them getting killed, so play it cool, okay?"

"Sure."

The phone rang.

"Get that for me, would you, Mary?" commanded Lyle without looking up, despite the fact that the phone was practically within arms reach for him.

Al looked across at the father, aghast that he didn't leap up and grab it on the first ring. "He's a bit of a cold fish, isn't he?" Al nodded in Lyle's direction.

"And then some," replied Sam, hauling himself to his feet and dragging himself over to the phone, eager to stop its jangling.

"Balmoral Suite, M…" he began.

"Mornin' duchess, how's your head?" came the taunting reply.

Even muffled by the telephone and his own dulled senses, Sam recognized the voice as that of the "waiter" from the previous evening. Not wanting to admit they had him at a disadvantage, Sam retorted, "Fine, how's your groin?" He thought he almost heard the man wince, and allowed himself a slight smile.

"Is the rich bastard gonna pay up? Or do we take these little brats on a one way trip?" his tone was both aggressive and edgy.

Sam bit back the threats he wanted to shout at the creep, the warning to leave those poor innocent young girls alone. He swallowed to compose himself. "Play it cool," Al had said. A grisly vision chilled his blood.

"How do we know you haven't already done that? Oi want to talk to them."

"Not likely, duchess. But we thought you might want a bit of proof we got 'em. So put a sock in it and listen, right."

Sam heard a click and a whirr as the kidnapper started up a cassette machine, then the voices of Shelley-Anne and Tori, tiny terrified fragile voices pleading not to be hurt, to be let go; begging their father to give the kidnappers what they wanted, their Nanny to help them. Tori was crying. Her sibling was fighting valiantly but vainly to sound brave, trying to reassure her sister that their nightmare would not last much longer.

As he listened, Sam found himself gripping the phone, his stomach churning. He leant back against the wall. He daren't imagine what sort of night they'd had, how badly they were being treated. It sounded as if the atmosphere wherever they were was tense in the extreme. And despite the girl's statement that they were unhurt, Sam was unconvinced. He knew first hand what their captors were capable of – he felt sure the girls had not been tucked up for the night in comfy beds with a bedtime story and a tray of milk and cookies. He didn't want them in those evil clutches a second longer than was absolutely necessary.

Abruptly, the tape was switched off and the kidnapper broke into Sam's thoughts.

"That's all you get for now. So? Has Daddy dearest got the readies ready or not?" He chuckled at his choice of phrase. "I ain't hanging on the phone all day. I may not be bursting with 'O' levels, but I'm not  _that_  dumb."

Sam hadn't yet ascertained what, if anything, Strickland had done about getting hold of the million pound ransom, but he now believed that man's assurance that he'd pay anything to get his daughters back, so he winged it.

"We're working on it. It takes a while to come up wit' dat sort o' cash. We couldna just get it from a hole in the wall machine in de middle o' the night, now could we? You have to give us more time."

"I told you, I ain't stoopid." The voice was terse, angry. The man was on a short fuse.

"I wasn't trying to…" placated Sam, not wanting the guy to take out his temper on the girls.

"Shut your gob and listen, duchess," Henry cut in. "You tell that Strickland bloke to have the money in unmarked bills stuffed into that big old carpet bag thing of your'n. Then he's to get in his motor and drive up the M1 with it. He's to come off at Junction 13, turn right and be at Brogborough Picnic site by half five tonight. He'll find his next instructions taped underneath one of the picnic tables. 'Course, if he's late, someone else might just have taken them away first,  _if_  you catch my drift." This last threat was delivered with a malicious snigger.

Sam was seething, but managed to keep his anger in check. He glared at Al, who had been pushing buttons throughout the conversation.

"Sorry, Sam. Ziggy still can't get a lock on them. You're gonna have to track 'em down the hard way."

"Don't worry. You'll get ya money." Sam told the extortionist curtly. Then, inexplicably sure of his facts, he added; "Only dere'll be one slight change in plan, so dere will. Mr. Strickland doesna drive himself, so Oi'll be delivering it to you personally."

This seemed to throw Henry off balance for a moment, so that Sam expected to hear him conferring with his accomplice. However, she was evidently not at hand to offer fresh instructions. The man umm-ed and ah-ed for a bit – initiative was obviously not one of his strong points. Then he muttered a grudging "S'pose that'll have to do. Just make sure you turn up on time. Or else." With which he hung up.

Sam stood motionless until the buzzing tone of the disconnected call became intolerable to his ear. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and let out a long breath.

Only then did Strickland look up from his work and acknowledge the call had taken place. He looked at Sam with questioning eyes. 'Are they all right? Did you speak to them?'

Aloud, he simply asked "Where and when?"

Sam retreated to an easy chair and sat down again, breathing heavily.

"Dey're playing games with us, so dey are," he told both Al and Lyle. "Directions by installments. Oi've t'be somewhere called Brogboro by five thirty with the money. Oi'll get me orders from there." Sam was wringing his hands in frustration. "Does that give us enough time?"

"Ziggy's predicting the girls will be kept alive as insurance until they know if he's gonna pay up. Don't panic, buddy," soothed Al.

"We should have the cash by…" Lyle paused to look at his watch, making a mental calculation, "by 3:00. How far is this Brogboro place? I never heard of it." He was once again all business, no trace of emotion.

"Oi'm not sure," Sam looked at Al for prompting. "Oi'll be needing a map."

"Ask at reception. They'll get hold of one for you." Strickland could have been discussing plans for a picnic, but Sam could hear the underlying tension in his words.

"That's a good idea, Sam. At this distance, Ziggy's bound to need all the navigation aids you can get."

Further discussion was cut off by the return of Otis with the news that the chauffeur from 'Edwardian' was waiting out front in a white stretch Lincoln.

Lyle immediately gathered his papers into a leather briefcase and they departed with no more from the father than "Leave you to it then, Mary."

"Unbelievable." Al pronounced, shaking his head. "What is it with that guy? Doesn't he have any idea what's going on? Or is it just that he doesn't care at all?"

"Oh, Oi'm sure he cares deeply, Al," Sam corrected. "He just doesn't know how to show it Oi guess."

"No kidding.  _That_  much I  _had_  noticed."

"Pretty obvious, huh?"

"Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?" said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Sam shot his friend a reproachful look, and changed the subject.

"What about the mother, Rachel? Is she back State-side? Shouldn't she be told? Even if they  _are_  divorced, she still has a right to know her kids are in danger."

Al was surprised. Firstly, that Sam had got the mother's name right and secondly that he had gotten the marital status so very wrong.

"I don't know where you're getting your information, pal," he scolded, "but you're way off base." He repeated what Mary had told him about Rachel's illness and sudden demise.

"Probably PRD," responded Sam automatically, with the confidence of an experienced diagnostician.

"Say what?" countered Al, with the ignorance of the layman.

"Polycystic Renal Disease," explained Dr. Beckett, "that nearly always affects both kidneys. It's fairly common. Can tend to run in families…" Sam stopped, caught his breath, and then stared at Al. "Is there a history? Are either of the girls going to inherit it?" Sam gestured at the hand link, desperate for answers.

Obligingly, Al pressed the necessary buttons. He shook his head.

"Amazing, Sam, I'm impressed. Ziggy confirms she did have PRD. We can't tell about the girls, I'm afraid. Ziggy says there are too many variables and not strong enough odds on them surviving the current danger. Neither of Rachel's parents had it though, only a cousin so far as we can tell, and the girls haven't exhibited any symptoms to date, so maybe they'll be lucky."

"Tis devoutly to be wished," uttered Sam, his hands clasped together in supplication. The thought of saving their lives only to consign them to the same problems that had beset their mother was unendurable.

"Don't sweat it, Sam," advised Al, "One crisis at a time, huh?" he paused, "Two at the most."

They both forced a laugh.

Sam knew what Al meant. The relative comfort of the four-poster bed still beckoned from the bedroom. He turned a deaf ear to its call. Although still unable to ignore his pain completely, he was somehow managing to relegate it to the dimmer recesses of his consciousness.

Not so far that his friend couldn't see the effort it was costing him, of course.

"Hang in there, kid. Rest up 'til the cash gets here. There's not a lot you can do before then. May as well conserve energy."

"Whatever you say,  _doc_ ," mocked Sam, settling back in his chair, knowing full well that had their positions been reversed he would have offered much the same advice,  _and_  expected it to be followed to the letter.

Al favored him with a sly smile and called up his door.

Sam sat perfectly still, watching the spot where the bright rectangle had swallowed his companion for a full minute or more after it disappeared, as if he suspected it may return to catch him out. Then, with the furtive look of a knowing transgressor, he let out a weary sigh and got to his feet.

"Oh sure, Oi  _could_  take it easy," he said to no-one, "but then how am Oi supposed to get meself back in gear when Oi need to?" No-one answered. The way Sam felt, if he dared to 'rest up' now, it would take nothing short of a tornado to shift him when the time came. 'Wrap me up and label me "Not to be opened until Christmas"' he mused. Let Al  _think_  he was being sensible. No point in worrying him -even less in arguing with him.

"Oh well," Sam told himself, "here goes nothing."

Twenty minutes and a couple of aspirin later, Sam had managed to make it down to the hotel lobby. He'd rejected the option of relying on room service. The suite was starting to feel claustrophobic, and he figured he'd better not try to drive before he could walk.

He approached the main desk – a solid, paneled, mahogany monstrosity that dominated the area. Firmly entrenched behind this wooden barricade, the receptionist was busy berating a pair of gossiping bellboys. This was evidently the slow part of the day, with very few guests checking in or checking out, but she was making it abundantly clear that they should appear ready for action at all times. Slacking would  _not_  be tolerated.

With a stern look, she nodded in Sam's direction and they snapped to attention. Sam's sympathies went out to the lads, who visibly trembled under the onslaught of this sharp-tongued martinet.

Her manner changed totally when she addressed Sam. Charm turned on like a tap; smile carefully contrived to appear genuine and natural.

"Good morning, Madam. I trust you are enjoying your stay with us. How may I assist you?"

Sam winced almost imperceptibly at her words.  _'Enjoy my stay? Hah! For sure, so far it's been a barrel load of laughs and no mistake._ '

He forced a grin, which he reckoned to be pretty much as natural as her own, and replied lightly, "Top o' the mornin' t'you too, m'dear. Would ya be after knowing where Oi might be able t'lay me hands on some road maps?"

Sam thought he caught an odd look from her at this request, but it was there and gone in a nano-second, and he concluded that it was probably just wild imaginings and blurred vision. His mind was playing all sorts of tricks on him this morning. He even fancied that both this young woman's face and her voice were familiar to him. Yet he was positive he had never seen her before. Her flowing locks were such a striking shade of dark ruby red that once seen could never be forgotten. Sam figured that Mary must have met her the day before when they checked in and – like the accent – the memory had lingered on. The badge on the breast pocket of her smart, well-pressed uniform identified her as Miss H Brookes.

"Planning a touch of sight-seeing?" she enquired conversationally.

"Somet'ing loike dat," evaded Sam.

Miss Brookes reached beneath the counter and produced a small paperback with blue and red writing on a white cover pronouncing it to be the 'A to Z of London'. She pushed it across to Sam with another gushing smile. "Compliments of the management."

One glance told the traveler that it was not all he needed.

"T'ank ya kindly, young lady, but we were t'inking of goin' a bit further afield. Oi'll be needing somet'ing wit' the motorways on it as well. Is dere somewhere Oi could buy…?"

"Oh, of course. One moment please." She ducked down behind the desk and began rummaging through cubbyholes. Sam leant on the countertop and took the opportunity to close his eyes momentarily in the hope that when he re-opened them the lobby would be docked in calmer waters.

"Ah, here we are!"

Startled, Sam opened his eyes and forced them to focus as she handed him a spiral bound tome containing detailed maps of the entire British Isles.

She looked at him with what passed for concern. "Are you alright, Madam? You look very pale. Can I get you something?"

"T'ank you, m'dear, Oi'm perfectly fine," he lied, "Just me time o' life." He whispered conspiratorially.

"Well then, this should have everything you could possibly need." Miss Brookes informed him, with a curious edge to her voice. Then she flashed him her professional smile again.

"May I recommend you try a day trip down to Brighton? There's plenty for the children even at this time of year, and you could take in Poole. I'm sure you'd love the potteries."

"Sounds lovely, we may do that." Sam was rifling through the gazetteer, anxious to find his target. His response was polite but dismissive and he started to move off so that he could study his route in privacy. Holding the books up and waving them at shoulder height in farewell as he departed, his breeding led him to conclude with a "T'ank you."

Watching him go the receptionist allowed herself a gloating grin. The silly old cow had looked straight at her but not recognized her. She had known she could get away with it but it had still been risky. She shuddered, wiping the merest hint of sweat from her palms. She was so high on the thrill of her own audacity as to be practically orgasmic. What if the old girl  _had_  identified her and raised the alarm? But no, she had it too well orchestrated for that. The stupid bitch would be looking for a blond, not a redhead, and the last thing she would expect – anyone would expect – would be for the kidnapper to turn up, bold as brass, at the scene of the crime and put in a normal day's work. It meant trusting Henry to play minder to the brats, but then she had them so well sewn up they could be left more or less unattended 'til she got back.

They couldn't go anywhere.

Honor Brookes was well pleased with the way things were going. No police plodding around trying to look unobtrusive, and every indication that the ransom would be paid. Providing Henry didn't screw up, she was home free.

She had fumed when he'd called her back after the ransom message. She'd told him clearly and repeatedly that direct contact was a definite no-no, and it had taken all her self-control to talk to him without giving herself away. His news  _had_  actually pleased her when she thought about it, especially since she'd seen the old girl's condition. She hadn't been fooled for a moment. The Nanny was patently still suffering from the blow that clumsy oaf Henry had dealt her. Honor was going to enjoy giving her the run-around. Suddenly the game had gained a whole new dimension and she felt a tingle of anticipation run up and down her spine. She couldn't remember when she'd had so much  _fun_.


	8. Chapter 8

  
**Monday January 6th** **2003.**   


**QLHQ**

Rusty Kincaid came off duty and returned to his quarters without stopping to talk to anyone on the way. He divested himself of his uniform and donned his civvies, relieved to be free of the constraints of collar and tie, which he tossed carelessly onto the floor of the closet. He was supposed to be taking Patti into town for dinner, but he decided he really couldn't be bothered to dress up. He threw on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. She'd have to take him as she found him. Leaving the closet door open, he wandered aimlessly round the room. He wasn't entirely feeling himself, but couldn't have said in what way.

After a time he found himself by the head of his bed, idly rearranging the objects on his cabinet. He altered the angle of his alarm clock radio, making it easier to read the digital display from his pillow. He shifted the photo taken by Patti's friend Brenda of 'the happy couple' at their engagement party last month, pushing it further back, to a less prominent position. Then he lifted up his most prized possession and turned it over in his hands, almost caressing it. It had been tucked secretly under the bed at first. Contraband. Then he'd got bolder and propped it behind the big brass photo frame. Now he would give it pride of place. Why shouldn't he? It was his by right.

Spoils of War.

Just a memento of his first-ever real bomb.

Once he'd rendered it harmless, Rusty had removed the entire device from Gushie's chest.

Ziggy instructed him to dispose of the whole thing safely, and so he had – more or less.

Well, okay, less actually.

He'd taken the explosives out into the desert and detonated them under controlled conditions according to the book. Only before he destroyed it, he'd removed the original trigger device. It was cracked and chipped on the casing and not really much to look at, but it was a symbol of his triumph, a reminder of his skill. If it hadn't been for him, this simple little gizmo could've decimated the population of the Project faster than a funding cut.

So where was the harm in him having this one little keepsake? God knew he'd earned it. He refused to feel guilty about it. If the others didn't like it, well they could go to Hell. He didn't need 'em anyway. All they ever did was criticize him in any case. He'd even been denied a proper hero's reception cos of that damned pompous computer and it's Security Restrictions – insisting that no one else in the complex was to know what had really happened.

Not that he cared. Stuff the lot of 'em.

Rusty Kincaid was just fine by himself, thank you very much. He clutched his trophy to his chest and ignored Patti's insistent knocking when she came pounding at his door. As far as he was concerned, dinner was cancelled. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.

Except that when she finally gave up and went away, his relief was short-lived. He felt a strong sense of despondency and overwhelming loss. He was alone and for some reason that scared him. He had never been the sort to scare easily, and yet…

His bravado abandoned him and left him trembling like a frightened child.

Dropping the device onto his pillow - where tiny silver droplets leaked into the brilliant white linen unnoticed – he ran to his door to call Patti back. Only once there, his hand froze by the control as if it had forgotten the movements required to affect an opening. By the time he'd managed to re-educate his fingers and flung the door wide, there was no sign of his fiancée in the corridor. It was deserted save for Matt, a fellow Security guard whom he knew only casually. This young man was to remark later that Kincaid, upon spotting him, had retreated back into his room like a cuckoo into its clock, looking confused and guilty and calling out "What do you think you're staring at?"

Inside – without understanding why – Rusty flopped down on his bed, cradled his trophy to him as if it were a security blanket, and cried himself to a troubled sleep.

0o0

"But he  _was_  in his room, Bren, I'm sure of it," sobbed Patti.

"Did he answer you? Maybe he's sick," suggested Brenda, trying to placate her near hysterical friend.

"I-I'm afraid he is, Bren," Patti turned to look Brenda full in the face, "but," she paused, "but not like  _you_  mean."

She had been ready only five minutes later than the time Rusty had said he'd pick her up. Another seven had passed while she tamed the odd wisps of her thick blond hair and smoothed every last crease out of her full length, scoop neck chocolate brown dress. The dress Rusty had bought her as a reward for conquering her addiction to chocolate. She hadn't known whether to kiss him or kill him when he'd given it to her for one hundred days on the wagon – "Don't eat it, wear it!" he'd said and laughed. She loved his laugh – rich and warm and sensuous. She hadn't heard it in a couple of days, and the world seemed empty without it.

A lot of things had changed about Rusty over the weekend and none of them for the better.

Ever since he'd been called back on duty suddenly and unexpectedly on Saturday afternoon, he'd been secretive and edgy, irritable, introverted. He wouldn't tell her  _why_  he'd been called back, or what had taken him so long. Their day off together had been ruined and she'd been left kicking her heels, but he hadn't even the courtesy to offer a hint of an explanation. Okay, so she knew he worked in Security and therefore had a higher clearance than a humble coding clerk, but he still could have at least managed some sort of apology. He owed her that much. But it was as if she were no longer important to him. He'd been so strung out that night, high, elated one minute like he'd just taken on the world and won. Then the next minute he was so apathetic about anything and everything that she couldn't draw him out on the most basic topics of conversation, never mind the classified stuff.

If she hadn't been with him when he got the summons, she might have accused him of ducking off to see another woman. After all, it never ceased to amaze her that a great looking, wonderful guy like Rusty saw anything in a pudding-on-legs like her anyway. In the early days of their relationship she had been convinced that she was to be no more than another notch on his bedpost, but her ego had been bolstered enough to go along even with that level of attention. She had taken a lot of persuading that he really saw and loved her "inner beauty"; that he preferred her "cuddly". He never saw the attraction in "stick insects", he avowed, but preferred a woman who was "a good handful". So, she'd been the happiest woman alive when he'd told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

She'd believed him.

She still did.

Somehow she was sure the problem wasn't another woman. It was a bit more than cold feet, though; cold everything, in fact. There was no trace of affection left in him, and he had been the most affectionate, caring, tender lover she had ever known. (Not that the list was a long one.)

There was not a word or a look or a touch to let her know he still cared. He had withdrawn into his own little world – a turtle in his impenetrable shell. She'd practically had to bully him into not canceling tonight's dinner date – booked with such thoughtfulness well before Christmas. He  _knew_  how hard it was to get a table; it was the most popular restaurant in town. He'd agreed not to waste the booking. But then he hadn't turned up. So when she'd preened till she could preen no more, giving him time to be simply 'running late', she had gone looking for him.

She must have pounded on his door for at least ten minutes, calling to him, asking if he was all right, telling him to hurry, that the reservation would not be held for them all night. Rusty had completely ignored her – not a sound.

Brenda was wrong though; he hadn't been delayed on duty, or taken to his sick bed with a sudden bout of flu. He had been moving around in there. Some sixth sense told her categorically that he had been inside all the time. Yet he had totally ignored her.

Patti thought she would almost have preferred it if he had berated her – told her to go away and get lost. Even said he never wanted to see her again. At least that way she'd have known where she stood. Being ignored was so hard to come to terms with. Not knowing if she had done something to offend, if she had been the unwitting cause of his melancholia. Not that she could see how that could be.

She wasn't the one who'd changed.

Well, maybe she had, thanks to Rusty. She'd lost quite a bit of weight on the no chocolate diet, and whilst she would never be svelte - nor did he want her that way - she was confident of buying her wedding dress at least one size smaller. Assuming there would still be a wedding, of course. She'd gained in self-confidence, become more outgoing and full of life, more like her sister Robyn, more like Rusty.

The old Rusty, that was.

The Rusty who'd been full of joie-de-vivre, life and soul of every party, always good for a bit of fun or a witty tale. The one who'd taught her how to get the most out of life. Except that now it seemed the more she blossomed, the more he withered.

At first she had been cross at his change: Impatient; indignant; angry, even hurt. Now her abiding emotion was worry.

Rusty's behavior was so utterly uncharacteristic that she couldn't help but speculate – he was ill. Mentally ill – schizoid - or maybe he had a brain tumor.

She didn't know what, she wasn't a doctor.

Yet even a layman could tell something was going on in that handsome head of his, and that something was serious. She wanted to help him, but when she'd hinted earlier that he might have a problem, he'd acted like he was embarrassed and tried to change the subject. When she persisted, he'd gone berserk, ranting and raving at her that he was perfectly okay and she should mind her own goddamn business. Normally he never cussed. He'd been so angry that for a moment she'd thought he was going to hit her, but at the last instant he'd turned away and stalked off, fists still clenched at the end of rigid arms. It was a side of Rusty she'd thought she'd never see, and she could conceive of no other cause than a mental aberration due to a medical abnormality. 'Cept maybe drug abuse or glue sniffing or some such. They caused radical personality changes didn't they?

She voiced her fears to Brenda, whose response was utter incredulity, "Get real, Patti –  _drugs? Rusty?_   **Drugs?**  No way. There's gotta be another explanation."

"Yeah, well, I'm listening, Bren." She gave her friend a challenging look.

Brenda only shrugged and shook her head slightly.

"I dunno. I guess he  _must_  be sick. He sure is acting strange; I'll give you that. Have you talked to Dr. Beeks about it?"

"Nope," confessed Patti, "but I reckon it's high time I did."

Wiping her eyes she rose purposefully to her feet and took her leave.

0o0

Verbena Beeks was used to being permanently on call – never off duty. Of all the personnel based at QLHQ, hers was the second most demanding job. And on nights like these, she'd even challenge Al for that unenviable position.

Granted, he had to be a master juggler with the budget, had to be any number of things around the Project,  _and_  had to be at Sam's beck and call in all sorts of tense situations. And granted these demands took their toll on the Admiral. But at least he, along with every other Tom, Dick and Harriet, could come and unburden himself on her consulting couch.

Not that he ever lay on it. On the rare occasions she got him to stop long enough to talk, he always adamantly refused the comfort of the couch, preferring to sit in one of her more rigid upright seats, or more likely pace the floor with his familiar monotonous regular tread of four steps- turn- four back. She knew its origin, and refrained from commenting on it.

Dr. Beeks had no such luxury. She was the psychiatrist and counselor to absolutely everyone in the complex. There wasn't anybody she could consult for a second opinion, no one she could thrash out case histories with and not break patient confidentiality. The possible exception being an egotistical hybrid computer whose responses were often couched in riddles or annoyingly ambiguous, and which at times seemed to be the most neurotic patient of them all!

Most of all, there was not a living soul she could tell her own troubles to.

She could almost swear there was a clause in her contract expressly forbidding her to  _have_  personal problems. She was only allowed to have solutions. Allowed and expected.

With a weary sigh, she bade Patti a goodnight, promising to have a talk with Rusty in the morning. She was about to ask Ziggy for her expert analysis, which for once would have been most illuminating, but was precluded from doing so by the arrival of a very agitated Tina.

Dr. Beeks made herself a mental note to have the water supply checked for contaminants. It seemed that odd behavior was becoming contagious.

Verbena knew that having to keep a secret like the incident with the bomb was asking a lot for someone like Tina, and expected this to be the cause of her present flap. Surprisingly, it didn't come up.

As usual, Tina's initial tirade concerned Al Calavicci and his negligence of her. Verbena listened patiently while the young woman worked through her jealousy of each of the ex-wives, especially Ruthie, the third, who'd returned to the scene in such a dramatic and unexpected way recently, rekindling old emotions in Al that Tina felt very threatened by.

Then Dr. Beeks provided the suitable soothing responses as the pulse technician berated Dr. Beckett and the Project demands that kept the Admiral's attention from where it belonged. Dr. Beeks had heard it all before. She knew precisely how to help Tina weather this storm, though she could have done without it tonight. She was tired, she had a headache, and Rusty's condition was playing on her mind. She really wanted to give the problem her full attention.

So it was that she was repeating the standard platitudes, responding to Tina's needs with the recitation of well-rehearsed lines without really listening on a conscious level. It therefore took her by surprise when she suddenly realized Tina had changed tack.

She was still complaining about "him" being unresponsive, but she was clearly no longer referring to the Admiral.

"I'm sorry, Tina, you've lost me," confessed Dr. Beeks frankly. "Whom are we talking about now?"

"I told you, Gushie. You know, short guy, moustache, and bad breath?  _Gushie_." Tina's sarcastic tones could slice through solid steel.

"Yes, I remember who Gushie is," Bena replied with a smile.

'I should've guessed,' thought the psychiatrist.

Tina nearly always sought solace with the Chief Programmer when things turned sour between her and the Admiral. Why on earth she should gravitate toward Gushie when there were plenty of far more attractive fish in even their somewhat restricted pond was beyond even Beek's insight. Gushie had little to recommend him as a candidate for the 'other man'. Mind you, the Admiral wasn't exactly the most blatant front-runner either, being so much her senior. Still, despite his shortcomings, Gushie was a kind, gentle and generous soul and he could be a good listener, so perhaps in Tina's case he did have all the right attributes after all, especially since he was never really meant to be a  _serious_  rival for Tina's affections. No doubt in Tina's mind it was the ultimate put-down for Al, that she would turn her back on Casanova for the arms of Quasimodo as he himself had once put it in this very room.

Gushie had more than once left Dr. Beeks in no doubt that he understood the situation, 'the rules of the game' perfectly. He held no delusions of a happy ever after with Tina, knew he couldn't compete on a long-term basis. Yet, unlike most 'bits on the side', Gushie was well content with whatever scraps Tina saw fit to throw him, and was not bitter at having to share her affections with the Admiral. It was certainly not his M.O. to behave churlishly at being the obvious second choice.

"You say Gushie is avoiding you too?" Beeks had now restored her attention to one hundred percent. This sort of uncharacteristic antisocial behavior was fast reaching epidemic proportions. A loud note of discord was reverberating through their normally harmonious group. She needed to find the cause and get it stopped before she had more people in her office than at their workstations.

"Maybe it's something they  _ate_ ," she thought aloud, mentally adding the canteen to the water supply on her list of things to be checked.

"Huh?" Tina looked at her quizzically. Was the shrink losing  _her_  marbles too?

"Are you, like, trying to be funny?"

"Not at all," the doctor reassured her. "In fact, I've never been more serious in my life. Tell me  _exactly_  how Gushie behaved."

"Like I said, I was mad at Al for spending so long in the Waiting Room. After that  _business_  in the motor pool," she winked conspiratorially, "I was ready to give him another chance and I was waiting for him when he came back from Dr. Beckett, but he was so wrapped up in Sam's predicament – as usual – that he cut me dead. I tried again in the morning, but by the time I got to his room to invite him for breakfast, he was already on his way to the Waiting Room and  _that woman_. He was in there, like, forever. So I went to find Gushie. By the time I got there - well, I had to put my face on, didn't I? - he'd just sent Al back to the Imaging Chamber and his precious buddy. I asked Gush if he wanted to take me out this evening, I was gonna rub Al's nose in it when he stepped out again, y'know?"

"Yes, I know." Verbena knew exactly how Tina operated and as a rule both men were putty in her hands, allowing themselves to be led, not unwillingly, by the nose.

"But Gushie wouldn't play along, huh?"

"He knew I only wanted to make Al jealous, but that's never mattered before. I don't think that's what was bugging him anyway. He just…" she paused, incredulous, "he just didn't want to know. He was, like, totally withdrawn, yeah?"

"Maybe he was just busy, preoccupied. Sam  _has_  been hurt you know," reasoned Beeks.

Tina looked shocked. She hadn't known. Now she felt guilty for being cross that the scientist's travels had once again put her inevitable reconciliation with Al on the back burner. She actually liked Sam; really liked him. In fact if he and Donna weren't such an item, she might have tried giving Al a bit of competition in that fishpond too! If he were to be around of course.

"You see what I mean?" she complained. "Nobody tells me anything these days." She made a play of checking her armpits for odor. "Is there, like, something I should know?"

Verbena patted her hand gently and laughed, "Many things, Tina, my dear, many things. But that isn't one of them."

"Will Sammy be okay? Is he, like, hurt bad?" Only Tina could get away with calling the eminent doctor Sammy, and then only in limited company, and certainly never to his face.

Verbena could always judge the depth of Tina's agitation by the frequency with which she peppered her conversation with the word "like". Her concern for Dr. Beckett was sincere.

"His skull is fractured. By rights, he should be in hospital, but of course he won't hear of it. We're just praying there won't be any lasting complications."

Verbena's concern was just as genuine. She too nurtured a deep fondness for Sam, though of a more platonic nature, as did almost everyone who got to know him.

"Poor baby." Tina shook her head and looked uncharacteristically maternal.

They sat a while in silence, each with their own thoughts. Then the doctor's musings brought her back round to Gushie's aberrant behavior and she drew Tina back to her tale.

"You said Gushie was withdrawn? How else would you describe his manner?"

"I dunno. It's hard to say exactly. He was just, like, different." Tina looked pensive as she tried to analyze how Gushie had changed. She frowned and took a stick of gum from the pocket of her long-waisted silver jacket. Before unwrapping it she held it out toward her companion, who waved a declination. Tina shrugged and popped it in her mouth, lobbing the foil into Verbena's bin like a basketball into a hoop.

"He acted sorta, I dunno, like I made him nervous, I guess. And it wasn't from fear of being caught together, neither. It seemed like he couldn't think straight, couldn't concentrate. Oh, and his hands were shaking too. I don't know what else I can tell you. He was just, like, totally not himself. D'you think he's, like, still in shock over the 'you-know-what'," she silently mouthed the word 'bomb', "or something?"

"Or something. I suppose it could have hit him harder than he admitted. He did seem to spring back a little too quickly for my liking. Leave it with me, Tina. I'll have words with him tomorrow; see if I can do a bit of subtle probing, okay? I'm sure it's nothing personal." Verbena's tone was at its most reassuring, though privately her mind was racing, and she had far more questions than answers.

Unfortunately, by the time she was finally alone for the night, she was far too tired to formulate her questions into words, and so did not seek Ziggy's opinion about this alarming trend.

An omission she would later regret most bitterly.

  
**Monday January 6th** **2003.**  


  
**Los Angeles**.

Sally and David ate in silence as had become the norm, the dining table an island between them. In fact, it was virtually a continent; so total was their lack of communication. Sally pushed her food around her plate and sighed, while David ate automatically, his attention focused yet again on the pile of computer printouts next to his plate, rather than the food upon it.

His wife looked disapprovingly at his elbow propped on the table, disdainful of his shabby T-shirt and faded jeans. She herself was dressed up to the nines – classic black off the shoulder velvet dress, hugging her curvaceous figure in a way  _he_  never did anymore; brilliant white diamonds dripping from her ears and throat in stark contrast to the ebony. She may be a Beckett by marriage, but by God she was a Reynolds by birth and by breeding, and the Reynolds  _always_ dressed for dinner. For the hundred and thirty-seventh time, she wondered what she had ever seen in him.

Finally, out of sheer loneliness, Sally reached over for the remote control and flicked on the TV. For sure, it would be better company than her husband. David looked up momentarily, annoyed at the distraction, then mentally switched it off and returned to his studies.

His wife looked hopeful when she registered his movement, but it was an ignis fatuus.

She toyed with the idea of picking up her plate and hurling it at him, but decided the effort would be wasted. Why give herself more clearing up? Nothing short of another earthquake was going to shake him out of it this side of the early hours.

She was wrong.

A few moments later, both of them were riveted to the set, as the scheduled program was interrupted to bring a newsflash about a jailbreak.

Three prisoners had broken out of a high security wing, killing two guards.

David had been disinterested until mug shots of the escapees had been flashed up and his wife screamed a name. A name that was all too horribly familiar.

"David, that's Ruggiero!" she pointed wildly at the screen.

That face. That name. Memories and emotions long buried stirred and surfaced in an uprush that robbed them of their breath.

This was the man responsible for their dramatic meeting. Mingled with the terror this man-monster inspired, Sally felt a tingle of excitement as she recalled the heady thrill of that time, when she had become an overnight celebrity; a heroine.

Well, all right, heroine by proxy if you wanted to be strictly accurate. If it hadn't been for Lucky…

…Poor Lucky. Best darned dog she'd ever had. Sally still missed her dreadfully, even though it had been over a year since old age had overtaken her.

Despite the fear Ruggiero's escape struck in her heart, Sally couldn't resist using the situation to score points off her husband.

"Maybe I'll have to save your life again. Perhaps  _then_  you'll notice me. Only this time round, I might just decide you're  _not_  worth the effort!" she had risen to her feet and stood over him, hands on hips.

David stared vacantly at the screen, a different sort of panic welling inside. He knew he should be afraid of this man. He'd been told time and time again that he was lucky to have survived the attempts made on his life by Ruggiero and his twin brother. That he was responsible for putting Guido behind bars; that the Italian had vowed revenge for his own incarceration and the demise of his sibling, Marco, for which he blamed David.

Yet the real panic came not so much from any cowardice or dread of a confrontation with the huge convict, as from the old sense of bewilderment and loss of sanity to which thoughts of that period of his life gave rise. The whole incident, spanning several weeks, was nothing but a blur to him, as if it had been a bad dream, or a movie he'd watched without paying attention to the plot.

Afterwards, he thought he remembered odd moments, but he couldn't be sure if that was just because he'd been told so many times what had happened that he began to imagine that he actually remembered it.

Then there were the other memories – of being somewhere else entirely, with people whose faces and names hovered illusively just out of reach of his recall. Events he thought had been real, but so vague and intangible and unlikely that he could prove none of it. His expensive therapist had said it was his brain's defense mechanism. That the shock of what he had endured only really came out when it was all over, and this 'other place' was his way of blotting out the horror, by pretending it had happened to someone else.

It made a certain sort of sense, he supposed. It sounded very logical, very Freudian or whatever. Only this nagging little voice inside kept insisting that there was more to it. Now a nagging great voice outside demanded to be heeded, and David turned to his wife, the exasperation surfacing once more.

"How many times are you gonna throw all that back in my face, Sal? Must I spend my every waking moment expressing eternal gratitude for something I can't even remember? Besides, even if you did save my life, that doesn't mean you have a right to tell me how to live it. You don't own me, body and soul."

Gripping the table with both hands, he scraped back his chair and stalked across the room.

Not for the first time, David wondered how he had ended up married to this woman. They were world's apart – he the unsophisticated loner, she the glamorous boss's daughter. That, he supposed, was the crux of it. She was the boss's daughter. Not only had she supposedly effected his rescue from an untimely end,  _and_ ensured his recovery by paying some very hefty medical bills, but then it seemed she had secured him a lucrative position in one of her father's companies. Him and a dozen or more other workers made jobless by circumstances  _he_  was alleged to have set in motion.

No wonder he had been in awe of her, and felt beholden to her. Then he had been flattered by her attention. Most of all, he supposed, he had clung to her as a link to the chunk of his life that was missing. She knew what had happened where he did not, and the ignorance frightened him. He had been confused and vulnerable. With hindsight, he would have done better to draw a line and move on, to let sleeping dogs lie. But at the time he had been desperate for answers, and she had fuelled his desperation.

He had the newspaper clippings to prove that he owed her his life; he had just mistaken gratitude and need for love.

So when his good friends the Donahues - friends he couldn't exactly remember having made - told him she was a good catch, he let himself be reeled in.

Not that he had really had much of an option. Sally Reynolds had set her sights on him, and she was a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted. What he'd admired then as strength of character and determination, he now saw as the stubbornness of a rich-bitch spoilt-brat daddy's girl.

"Body and soul?  _Body and soul?_ " Sally retorted, her voice rising in pitch to a near shriek. "I don't even have your  _mind_. You act like I don't exist. You spend more time with that damned computer of yours than you ever do with me. And if it's not that then it's your precious car. I'm lucky if I come in a poor third. Then if you _do_  deign to talk to me it's more work, work, work. You never take me out cos you're too busy  _inventing_." she spat the word with venomous contempt, finally pausing for breath.

"That's not fair. You've always known how seriously I take my work, Sal. That's the way I am. That's one of the reasons your father hired me. The trouble with you is that Daddy has always bought you everything you've ever wanted. You never learnt that you can't buy people's affections and have them altered to fit like a tailored dress. You can't expect me to change just to suit you." David's voice was calm – he remained placid. He hated these confrontations and weathered them as best he could, but it was wearing.

Sally turned to look at him, an infinite sadness in her eyes. "Oh, no, but that's where you're wrong. You  _have_  changed, David. You've changed a whole helluva lot. You're not the man I fell in love with at all."

She regarded him for one moment longer, her expression emphasizing the fact that he appeared as a stranger to her. Then she turned on her heel and ran crying from the room, leaving David staring after her with the bemused look of a puppy who'd been scolded without knowing the nature of his indiscretion.

0o0

Back at Quantum Leap Headquarters, Admiral Calavicci also watched the newsflash, at Ziggy's behest, and shuddered at the sight of the enormous escapee. Unlike Beeks, he  _did_  consult Ziggy as to the ramifications of  _this_  unwelcome turn of events.

Only he wished to God he hadn't.

The computer's prediction - based on existing information, since they were dealing with their own present time - that a vengeful Ruggiero would most likely murder David Beckett, was totally unacceptable, but he was darned if he knew what the hell  _he_  could do about it.

And their non-resident Boy Scout was off earning merit badges elsewhere.

Nevertheless, they were unequivocally culpable when it came to this current predicament, and therefore had a responsibility to protect David from his probable fate.

Al raked his hair back with both hands and scratched at the back of his head.

Then he barked at the air, "Think of something, dammit Ziggy. Think of  _something_."

Never in a million leap years could either of them have foreseen the solution that eventually presented itself.

 


	9. Chapter 9

  
**Thursday 1** **st** **December 1988**   


**London.**

Sam spent the best part of the day – or perhaps it was the worst part of the day – in frustrated inactivity. Too keyed up and anxious to rest abed as instructed, yet too dizzy and disoriented to achieve anything worthwhile. He sat down several times to study the maps he had procured, but each session soon ended abruptly with roads blurring into a tangle of colored knitting yarns before his weary eyes. After more than an hour, all he had managed to ascertain was that Brogborough was in the county of Bedfordshire and was situated some 50 miles or so north of London.

He could neither watch the television nor play the piano, for the noise made his head throb abominably. He was too unsteady to pace the floor, yet too restless to sit still. He ordered a midday meal, but had no appetite to consume more than a few morsels before it made him feel nauseas again.

At least once every ten minutes thereafter, he went to the door to look for signs of the money being delivered. Part of him was fearful of undertaking such a long drive in his present condition, but the greater part was anxious to be getting on with it. Each second the children remained in the clutches of those ruffians was a moment's danger too long.

Shutting the door for the hundredth time on a stubbornly empty corridor, Sam leant against the wall and sighed a deep sigh borne of impatience mingled with exhaustion. Closing his eyes to give them a brief respite from the strain of focusing, he lost himself for a while, drifting away from his problems and letting his mind wander to more pleasant pastures.

It did not work for long.

Sharp images of the girls – bloodied and lifeless – invaded his reverie, causing him to gasp. With a jerk of his head, his eyes snapped open and he wiped down his face with the flat of his hand, as if trying to erase the after-image from his retinas. A series of staccato breaths carried him to the Queen Anne chair into which he all but fell – legs and arms trembling. Looking down, he clasped his hands together, each one trying to still the quivering of the other.

A multitude of startled Lepidoptera took frantic flight in his thoracic cavity.

"Pull yerself together," he admonished himself aloud, "Oi bet de real Mary wouldn't be falling apart at the seams like dis, cowering in a corner feeling sorry for herself."

"Hey, cut yourself some slack, buddy." Al appeared just in time to hear Sam's private pep talk.

After a restless night worrying about the mess they had gotten David Beckett into, Al had risen early Tuesday morning and dressed in his Navy Whites. He'd been places and seen people trying to call in favors and/or pull rank in an attempt to afford the young man some protection, but so far he was less than satisfied with the results. He would have to resume his rounds later, for now – Ziggy informed him – the delivery of the ransom money was imminent and Sam may well be in need of Al's own unique brand of back up during the exchange.

Sam was visibly startled by the intrusion and turned abruptly to face the new arrival, wincing at the incautious movement.

"How many times do Oi have t' tell ya-" he began.

"-don't do that!" Al finished with him. "I know, sorry pal. I  _thought_ you'd be in bed." The tone was unmistakable in its condemnation of Sam's disobedience. Not that he would gloat, or say 'told you so'. He took absolutely no delight in his friend's plight.

"Would you believe 'Oi just got up'?" queried Sam, knowing he was fooling no one.

"Sure, whatever you say." Al closed the subject with a dismissive wave of his hand, and the punch line "But then, I'd believe it if  _you_ told me that Melinda Messenger was a man!"

"Yeah, right. So are ya trying to work up a double act, or is there a reason fer this visit?"

"It's time, Sam." Al informed him, just as the knock finally sounded on the door.

Sam curbed his instinct to pounce on the door, and rose sedately to his feet, admitting Otis, carrying a huge attaché case. There was no sign of Lyle Strickland.

"Is it all in there?" Sam asked the courier, waving his hand in the direction of the bag.

"Every last red cent, Mary," replied Otis; looking somewhat awed at the thought of having carried that much cash from the bank without getting mugged on the way.

Al was button bashing, calling up a resume on the new arrival.

"This is Otis Johnson, Sam. 27 years old. Company Secretary and Strickland's Personal Assistant for the past three years. Seems like a regular guy."

"Oi tort so." Sam confirmed, letting Al know he was telling him nothing new. Although a second name was useful for his mental archive, it seemed that first name terms applied.

Otis favored Mary with a sidelong glance, wondering at the odd comment. Then he shrugged it off as one of Mary's little idiosyncrasies or a side effect of her recent injury. She certainly looked pretty awful. It didn't help that she wasn't wearing any make-up. In all the time he'd known her, Mary had always taken the trouble to apply make-up. Understated, admittedly, subtle and unobtrusive, but enough to give her complexion a healthy glow and her lips a little color. Today, she was au naturelle and it didn't suit her at all. She looked ten years older and haggard and grey.

One thing was for sure; Mary wasn't herself at the moment.

Otis placed the bag carefully on the table and snapped open the catches, lifting the lid to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked, paper wrapped crisp bundles of £50 notes, sterling.

Al, looking over the young man's shoulder, emitted a long slow whistle at the sight of so much money. "That'd pay my alimony bills for a while!" he commented with a grin.

Sam glared at him, and then without a word he began to transfer the cash into Mary's carpetbag, which he had already fetched during his long wait. Ever attentive, Otis assisted him and though it had appeared a bottomless pit, it was nonetheless almost brimful by the time they had finished.

Sam closed the zipper firmly, tucked the maps in an outer pocket and lifted the bag down. As the force of gravity took over from the support of the table, the bulging sack plummeted floor-ward, jerking Sam's arm sharply and almost tipping him completely off balance. Otis put out a steadying hand and with the other helped him to take the weight and lower it to the ground.

"Are youse okay?" he asked, seeing the woman's face blanche, the eyes momentarily unfocused.

"Sure. 'Tis just a wee bit heavier than me smalls is all." Sam laughed feebly.

Al wasn't convinced and shook his head, conferring upon Sam a full 43-muscle frown.

Otis wasn't convinced either.

"It ain't too late, Mary. If youse don't feel up for it, I can make de run instead. I'll square it with da boss." He picked up the car keys for emphasis.

"T'anks, Otis," replied Sam, tempted for a split second to take him up on his offer. He knew he really shouldn't be driving in his current condition. "But who'd square it wit da kidnappers? No, Oi'll be fine." Sam held his hand out with some slight reluctance for the key ring with its white swan motif, which had hitherto proclaimed to him the presence of a self-drive hire car.

Otis knew better than to contradict Mary, but that didn't negate his concern. "Youse knows best, Mary. But youse gotta at least let me walk ya to da car." He sniggered self-consciously, as if he expected his gallantry to be misinterpreted. "I ain't never gonna get my hands on this much mazuma again. Let me savor the moment a while longer, huh?" he gave Sam the sort of look a kid gives his parents when seeking permission to stay up late 'Just this once' because there is something special on TV.

A look that reminded him of the girls.

"Be my guest." Sam made a sweeping gesture toward the swag bag. Thelma Beckett didn't raise no fools. Having Otis guide him to the right vehicle could well save him much valuable time and frustration. And the bag  _was_ heavy. Sam needed to conserve what little strength he had for whatever lay ahead.

Sam put on Mary's thick velour three-quarter length camel colored coat, dropping the keys to the suite into the left-hand patch pocket. He glanced at his watch.

3:12pm.

The countdown had begun.

  
**Tuesday 7** **th** **January 2003**   


**QLHQ**

**9:18pm**

Verbena Beeks was agitated and it showed.

"Come on over here and sit yourself down." Mary patted the bed beside her to underline the invitation.

The doctor smiled and obeyed. Right now she needed to talk with the levelheaded Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had sensed her unspoken cry for help and readily reversed their roles.

Beeks had kept her promises and spoken to both Gushie and Rusty. Spoken  _to_ being the operative word, as neither man had been in communicative mood. Other than confirming their girlfriend's observations, she had achieved nothing.

Feeling frustrated the good doctor had made a point of speaking to as many Project personnel as she could during the day. She had been looking to establish how far the malaise had spread and in which directions, trying to find a pattern.

However, to her surprise and relief, aside from the Admiral displaying a degree of irascibility even greater than the norm, so far the rest of the team seemed unaffected. Though this was small comfort when weighed against her lack of progress in determining both a cause for the aberrant behavior and a means of restoring the status quo. The only common experience the two had shared was the bomb incident.

For a while Verbena considered Post Traumatic Stress, but the symptoms were not exactly typical and she relegated it to the bottom of her list of likely causes. Once again, had she consulted Ziggy, she might have discovered that she had hit upon the right point of origin, even though she had reached the wrong conclusion from it.

The fact that the problem had reached the attention of even the most isolated person on site – namely Mary – bode ill. The only ray of light  _this_ tunnel offered was that it allowed Beeks to feel justified in debating the matter with her.

It had happened shortly before Bena arrived at the Waiting Room that evening. Al had called in on Mary prior to re-joining Sam, and – she told Beeks – had been as charming as ever, though somewhat preoccupied.

This much was nothing new. It was when he left that the balloon had gone up.

Project policy was to have long shifts among the guards on duty outside the Waiting Room, for two main reasons. Firstly: the fewer faces seen by their guests, the smaller the risk to security (they never knew when one of the personnel's antecedents might turn up - among other considerations). Secondly, Dr. Beeks felt it would be more reassuring for the residents if they could recognize 'a friendly face', rather than have a never-ending series of strangers in the jailer's role.

Thus it was that when Al emerged, Corporal Kincaid had just reported back on duty. That in itself was cause for criticism, as Corporal Matt Langley – whom he was relieving – had been due off duty half an hour earlier. Al had remarked the fact as he entered, but Langley had covered for his colleague with a plausible excuse for the unofficial change of schedule. Although when Rusty finally arrived, he was less than grateful, nor was he apologetic for the trouble he'd caused. On the contrary, he had practically snapped the poor man's head off for daring to comment.

Now it was Rusty's turn to be chewed out, as Al stopped in his tracks in the doorway, allowing Mary to witness their exchange. Luckily, she was not the type to use it to her advantage as a chance to bolt for freedom.

This time, Rusty was not merely slow in saluting; he omitted the gesture completely.

The Admiral took one look at him and barked, "Call that a uniform, Corporal? Look at you. You're a disgrace!"

In complete and total contrast to his normal 'by the book', 'fine example of a military man' smart appearance, today Kincaid was unshaven and his uniform creased, the tie knotted loosely and hanging low and awry. The shoes were unpolished. His whole demeanor was languid. Far from being contrite, the Corporal shrugged off the rebuke as if it were beneath his dignity to respond.

Which of course enraged the senior officer still further.

"Stand to attention when I'm talking to you, soldier!" he snapped, unaccustomed to such a blatant lack of respect. Kincaid merely mouthed the words back at him mockingly, bobbing his head from side to side, an insolent schoolboy unafraid of the Principal's wrath.

Mary had noticed the tension in Al's stance. She saw the fists clench, and wondered for a moment if her 'little leprechaun' was going to deck the young man.

"Oi t'ink Oi must have gasped," she told Bena, "cos he half turned back to look at me."

The distraction evidently diffused the situation somewhat, and caused Al to reassess his priorities. He glanced at his watch.

"Consider this your lucky day,  _Mister,"_ he told Rusty. "I'm turning a blind eye to this uh, episode, but only because of your outstanding performance the other day. Get yourself smartened up before I lay eyes on you again, and buck up your ideas, or I'll have you on report so fast your feet won't touch the ground!"

Without waiting for Rusty's acquiescence, which in any case was conspicuous by its absence, the Admiral strode off to the Imaging Chamber, leaving Mary to glimpse the young man's expression, which was a curious mixture of loathing and apathy.

"He's awa' wit' the faeries, that one," she observed to Verbena, who conceded that this was one diagnosis she had not considered.

"Oi take it he's not normally loike dis?" Mary asked.

"Not at all," confirmed the psychiatrist, "Far from it. Rusty is one of the finest. 'Wicked sense of humor, but solid as a rock. His girlfriend thought he'd become schizoid, but he doesn't really fit the profile, despite the personality change. I've ruled out tumors on the frontal lobe and hypothalamus too, both of which can be characterized by similar behavioral manifestations. Frankly, I'm fresh out of ideas. I can't even be sure if the cause is physical or purely psychological. I'm primarily a psychiatrist rather than a neurologist." She paused to look at Mary, stranded in Dr. Beckett's aura. "Sam would be much better clued up. I bet he could work out what was wrong in no time," she said wistfully.

"You miss him a lot, don't you?" Mary was nothing if not perceptive. She patted Verbena's arm.

"We all do, Mary. We all do."

**Los Angeles**

  
**Tuesday 7** **th** **January 2003**   


David rose from his work to answer the door, having realized at last that his wife was not at home, since the bell had rung incessantly for several minutes and Sally could never have ignored it. It wasn't in her nature.

Standing outside was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a crisp linen suit and carrying a briefcase. In her other hand she held a wad of papers.

"Good evening. Mr. Beckett?" she enquired.

"Yes, that's me," confirmed David, puzzled.

"I am sorry to call at such an unfortunate time." The woman cleared her throat, embarrassed. Her line of work was seldom pleasant, and normally she was hardened to it. Yet this seemed like kicking a man when he was down. "My name is Joanne Balfour. I'm a Processor. I'm afraid I am the bearer of more bad news for you." She held out the papers towards him and he took them without taking his eyes from the woman's face. "I am here to serve these divorce papers on you."

She didn't normally work this late, and the papers were hot off the press, prepared with remarkable haste by one of the city's top lawyers. But then money such as the Reynolds family commanded could buy almost anything.

David was stunned, bewilderment written all over his face. He looked from the woman to the documents in his hand and back again. Unable to take in the reason for her presence, he latched on to the rest of her statement.

" **More** bad news?" he queried.

By way of reply, she inclined her head in the direction of the open door. David turned to follow her gaze and drew in a sharp breath.

Pinned firmly to the wood paneling was a large wreath across which stretched a broad black ribbon boldly bearing the letters R.I.P. in white silk.

Clearly Ruggiero was letting David know that he knew where his intended victim lived and could get at him any time he wanted.

David thanked Ms Balfour for her condolences, looking at her without actually seeing her.

Wishing him happier times ahead, she departed.

He closed the door and walked like a zombie back into his eerily silent home.

Some hours later he came to himself, finding that he was sitting in his bedroom in the dark with the papers as yet unopened in his hand. He put the light on and read them, comprehension slowly dawning. Then he stood up and opened the door to Sally's walk-in wardrobe. He was not really surprised to find it stripped bare, and only wondered when she had emptied it, and whether or not he should have had time to notice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Eight**

**London**

**Thursday 3:27pm**

Down in the basement car park, Otis led Mary confidently through the rows of cars to their allotted chariot. He stopped by a beautiful dolphin grey BMW 7 series. A sleek, shiny 4 eyed monster of a car with grey leather upholstery and walnut paneling. And the steering wheel on the right!

"Oh boy, oh boy," breathed Sam, taking the bag from Otis and putting it in the well on the passenger side to cover his confusion, before moving round to the driver's seat.

"I guess youse on yer way, den." Otis closed the door behind him, bending down to window level to add, "Take care, Mary. Dem guy's'd moida youse soon as look at yer. Good luck."

"T'anks," acknowledged Sam, "Oi'm goin' t'be needing it, t'be sure."

As Otis stepped back, Sam settled into his seat and studied the cockpit controls. Fortunately, they were well set out and much easier to recognize than some of the cockpits he'd found himself manning on previous leaps, yet in some ways it was almost as alien.

Taking a deep breath, Sam turned the key in the ignition and felt the first gentle stirrings of life in the powerful engine. A brief wave of farewell and he nudged the car into reverse, edging it carefully out of its parking bay.

With his unseen partner riding shotgun beside him, he was on his way.

**Thursday 3:27pm**

**Somewhere in Bedfordshire**

Shelley sniffed, trying not to cry.

They didn't like it when she cried.

The man shouted at her. That made her feel like crying more, but she was afraid.

The sisters had both woken from the effects of the strange-smelling stuff with a taste of blood in their mouths. She and Tori had both begun crying, and the man had slapped her leg.

Hard.

It had hurt. It had stung for a long time. Daddy had  _never_  hit her. Nanny had  _never_  hit her. But this man had hit her. He hit her  _really_  hard.

And he kept telling her that if she didn't shut up and stop sniveling, he'd hit her even harder. He'd "slap her silly face into the middle of next week."

Whatever that meant.

Sometimes she felt as if it were already the middle of next week. She had lost all track of time, and it felt like they'd been there forever. They were blindfolded constantly, so that they had no idea if it was day or night. They were tied together, back to back, still in their nightclothes. Wherever they were, it was a strange and horrid place; it was cold and damp and smelly and quiet and spooky. For much of the time they seemed to be left alone, and at first they had struggled against their bonds, trying to escape, but it only made the ropes tighter, so they'd given that up long ago.

They had been spoon-fed some mushy breakfast cereal which tasted like soggy cardboard and a short time ago they had been fed small squares of cheese sandwich. Shelley  _hated_ cheese, but had dared not complain. It seemed a very long time between meals, and she had the feeling that if they refused anything, they would get nothing. Tori had already whispered to her more than once that she was hungry, and Shelley could hear her own stomach growling in the quiet darkness.

So far, Tori was being very brave, which was just as well. Shelley was so scared herself, that she could offer scant comfort to her younger sibling. If anything, it had been Tori who had done most of the reassuring after the initial show Shelley had managed for the tape. She had wanted to tell her Daddy what the nasty people had done to them, the hitting, and the…she probed at her sore mouth with her tongue… but the man said if they told, they would be punished. He scared her witless with what he threatened to do to them.

So she'd lied and said they hadn't been hurt.

Nanny would be proud of how well Tori was coping with the nightmare. She wouldn't be so proud of Shelley, who frequently found herself trembling, her lips quivering; her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

She was cold. She was tired. She was hungry. She was terrified.

And with each passing minute she was more and more certain that they would never, ever see Daddy or Nanny again.

They were going to die.

Shelley sniffed again, trying not to cry.

_They_ didn't like it when she cried.

**Stallion's Gate, New Mexico**

**Wednesday 3:27 am**

In room 66, single person's quarters (male) someone tosses and turns, unable to sleep. For the third successive night he counts off the passing of protracted hours on his bedside clock and feels that morning is a lifetime away.

In the Project cafeteria, a lone figure sits at a table sipping cold coffee and scribbling calculations on the back of an old grocery list. A frown; annoyed, he crosses something out. He chews the end of his pencil in contemplation for several minutes.

Eureka!

More frantic scribbling - and a smug expression. Things were beginning to come together.

This could be it.

It may just work.

Finally the solution was within his grasp. He could smell it.

Behind him the cafeteria door opens noisily and he tucks his notes into his pocket surreptitiously. The new arrival greets him warmly but he merely nods in acknowledgement and gets up, making his excuses and scurrying out like a startled rabbit.

The rest of the complex sighs to the rhythm of countless sleeping bodies, while Ziggy keeps eternal vigil, aided only by a skeleton crew of essential personnel and security officers who patrol the graveyard shift with somnambulant monotony.

**London**

**4:20 pm**

Another car pulled out of the subterranean car park of an opulent hotel and made its way across the teeming metropolis towards the motorway. This vehicle moved more confidently - sure of its route, having travelled it regularly for some time. Honor Brookes knew that she could afford the head start she had given the old girl while she finished her shift. She had it all worked out to the last detail and timed to the minute.

Of course, it had been timed with the father in mind. That was just tough luck on the substitute.

If she couldn't keep up – she'd fail. It was as simple as that.

Honor could pick up the pieces – and the cash – at any stage and achieve her objective. She had made contingencies. But her timetable was carved in tablets of stone. No quarter would be given. Mercy and compassion were not in her vocabulary.

**Bedfordshire**

**4:20pm**

Henry checked on his hostages and on his watch. He was in a state of nervous agitation, palms sweating, fingers twitching.

What  _had_ he got himself mixed up in?

What if they got caught?

Why had he let her talk him into this crazy scheme? She'd made it sound so easy: A great adventure - a lark. A foolproof chance to get rich quick. Piece of cake, she'd said, and he'd believed her. He always believed every word she said.

But it had been a long day. A whole day without Honor around to remind him how simple it was. How safe. A day full of doubts and uncertainties and scared crying brats.

They did his head in.

So much so that he'd left them alone as much as he dared. He'd taken a sickie from work. She'd said nobody would suspect if he took a day off, not like her "at the scene of the crime". And by the time they realized he wasn't ever going to show up for work again, they would be sunning themselves on some exotic beach.

She wouldn't tell him where. It was her surprise, she said, in that seductive way that drove him wild with desire. Her plans held the promise of nights of passion and happy ever after and everything he'd ever wanted.

No wonder he'd been sold.

She hadn't mentioned the down side. Hadn't told him what it would be like to be cooped up with two sniveling little bitches, having to spoon-feed them. He'd felt like choking them there and then, but he knew Honor would've had  _him_ for breakfast.

He wasn't any good with kids.

That was why he'd been even more attracted to Honor when she'd said she never wanted 'em. That was so rare for a woman. Being brought up as one of five children had given her enough of dirty nappies and sibling squabbles and the rest to last a lifetime, she'd said. She had no wish to go through it all again with her own. Not to mention the ravages that pregnancy would wreak on her body. No thank you.

It was amazing how many things they agreed on. How much they had in common. Who'd have thought it?

Henry allowed himself a lecherous snigger.

He'd really got himself a prize, and he'd do whatever it took to keep her. Cos he knew he'd never get another like her.

Not in this lifetime.

So whenever the girls got on his nerves too much, he took off for a walk to clear his head.

They were trussed up tight.

They couldn't get free.

'Course not.

And if they did, they wouldn't get far. He'd catch them before they could raise the alarm.

He was so pleased with himself for picking this spot.

For getting something right.

For not screwing up as usual.

Honor's face had been his reward when he'd showed it to her. She went wild with excitement. Even hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek, shrieking like a teenager who'd just met her pop idol. She was not normally so demonstrative with her affections.

And he was rarely so deserving of them. He'd kept his eyes open and come up with exactly the place she'd been looking for: isolated, empty, not likely to be sold quickly.

She'd put her plan straight into action, heading for the Estate agent's office in her black wig, her alias well worked out. He wished he could have seen her performance. He'd watched her rehearsing it often enough.

She was a brilliant actress: very convincing. Some of the details of her story went over his head, but the agent obviously swallowed it hook, line and sinker. She said she was representing clients moving to the area from somewhere abroad.

"They" were looking for a small-holding – nothing fancy, just a modest family business in a nice quiet place in the country.

"What a coincidence," the agent told her. They had just that week signed a place on their books. The owner died without heirs and the few workers he had to help him had been unable to buy the property out. They had moved on to find work on other farms in the area. The livestock had been sold to pay for the funeral expenses and so the farm was going at a bargain price.

Vacant possession.

Actually, "Ms. Brocklehurst" reckoned the price was rather steep. The farm was not exactly a gold mine, though it was viable, if that's what you wanted. Of course if truth were known, she didn't. However, the price suited her admirably if it kept genuine buyers away. She'd asked to view the property and within a few days she had it all arranged so that Henry was sent out to alter the Sale board to SOLD: SUBJECT TO CONTRACT.

That ensured there wouldn't be anyone else nosing around the place. Then she'd found some pretext after another to need additional viewings – Henry couldn't remember what, it was all too complicated for him – so that after a time the agent lent her the keys rather than accompanying her.

Just as she'd planned.

Naturally, she'd had two spare sets cut before returning them. Then another 'official' visit to allay suspicions before setting the place up to receive its visitors. She had no intention of buying the dump for real of course. Her clients would develop some last minute hitch preventing immigration or some such, but by then the place would have served its purpose, and no one would be any the wiser.

Perfect.

Henry was constantly amazed and impressed by the way she had thought of absolutely everything. And the way she could get people to do exactly what she wanted. She was an incredible woman: brainy and beautiful and everything. She could have her pick of any man. Henry marveled once more that she had chosen the likes of him.

Such fabulous luck had to be earned, he guessed. So he'd have to ride it out. Grin and bear it. Make the best of it.

It should soon be over now.

Checking his watch again, he satisfied himself that his hostages were secure and would remain so during his absence. Then he took his van and Honor's carefully prepared instructions and headed for Brogborough. He had to stay on time. Keep well ahead of the old girl, but not too early in case the notes were found by someone else. The less time for  _that_ the better.

**On the road**

**4:20 pm**

Driving in Central London made Sam feel like a lab-rat trying to negotiate a maze. He'd been traveling for almost an hour, and had still not reached the motorway, though at last there were signposts to tell him he was getting close.

More than once, he'd had to detour from the route Al suggested because a one-way system not marked on the map confounded him with a NO ENTRY sign.

Dusk was rapidly turning into night, made darker by the renewed rain, which beat rhythmically on the roof of the car, conducted by the wiper blades swaying hypnotically to and fro across the windshield.

Driving conditions were far from ideal, and with the approach of the 'rush hour' they were likely to deteriorate - in direct proportion to the far from ideal condition of the driver. Sam's head still hurt like Hell and driving an unfamiliar car on the unfamiliar side of unfamiliar roads did nothing to soothe his troubled brow.

He was concentrating hard; his conversation with Al restricted to that necessary in order to attain their destination within the allotted time. Al was starting to feel that he was little more than GPS/speaking clock as the greatest part of his contribution was to give directions and answer Sam's incessant enquiries of "What time is it now?" or "How long have we got left?"

Al's attempts to calm and reassure his colleague were meeting with only very limited success. He could tell Sam was conducting an internal battle, torn between a desire to charge to the rescue at full gallop and the need to ensure that his impaired reactions did not cause an accident that may delay or even prevent his arrival altogether.

So far Sam was erring on the side of caution, but it was clearly becoming increasingly frustrating to him. A lesser man would have been swearing and pounding the horn. Sam settled for drumming his fingers on the wheel and glowering, his foot twitching on the gas pedal. Every once in a while he muttered an impatient "Come  _on"_  under his breath to all the tourists who had all day and were taking it.

Al wished that he could tell Sam the odds of getting the girls back alive were way up in the realms of extreme probability, but they remained stubbornly in the neutral zone, so he avoided the subject. All attempts to lift the mood with light-hearted banter were curtailed by stony glares, so in the long silences Al fell to pondering new ways to bail his  _other_ Beckett friend out of trouble.

With equal lack of success.

Finally, they'd reached the elusive motorway and began the long haul North; Sam counting off the junctions as they passed by.

Somewhere just beyond Junction 4, the monotony became soporific and Sam's concentration started to lapse.

Al had to yell at him to stop Sam drifting into the fast lane in the path of a juggernaut.

Sam rubbed his eyes and took the rebuke in silence, still brooding, still disinclined to conversation. Instead, he turned up the air-conditioning on his side of the car and switched on the radio, using the automatic re-tuner to select a local station as the London service faded out.

Being December and the run up to Christmas, all the stations had started reviewing the closing year by playing the Number Ones and near misses from the previous eleven month's charts, and predicting what would be occupying the top slot in a little over three week's time. The track being introduced as the tuner locked on to a new channel – which had topped the British charts in October – drew a splutter of laughter from Al.

"Is he talking to you?" asked the hologram as it began, waving his cigar in the direction of the radio, and then at Sam, who frowned at his friend, looking daggers for several seconds before conceding a smile.

"You saying Oi needs t' lighten up?" he queried.

"Me and him both!" replied Al, as the voice on the radio once more exhorted through his chorus, " _Don't Worry, Be Happy!"_

"Oi guess dere's a song for  _every_ situation!" mused Sam, who in spite of himself had started tapping the wheel in time to the music.

"Mm-hmm," asserted his companion, thinking of the wife Sam didn't remember he had, sitting alone night after night singing along to the CD that had become 'her' song,  _"(If it takes forever) I will wait for you."_

'Bet the writer never had  _their_  situation in mind when he penned those oh-so-apt lyrics' thought Al.

Whether by chance or design, the next title to air declared to Sam that ' _The only way is Up!'_

His smile broadened and he cocked an eyebrow. "More messages through the ether?"

" **He**  moves in mysterious ways," quoth Al, "As we know better than most."

The miles began to pass less tediously, and although not every song was laden with hidden meanings, by the time they reached Junction 11, they had found a good number that could be made to fit their circumstances, either general or specific. It became almost a game between them, to attach some personal significance to the tunes.

Thus when Tiffany observed  _"I think we're alone now",_  Sam said he could adopt it as a catch-phrase given the number of times they had sought solitude - usually in a Men's Room - so that he could converse with his partner without appearing to be crazy.

And when Danny Wilson sang  _…Suddenly the rain came down…I made such a big mistake, when I was Mary's prayer..._ they simply looked at each other and muttered in unison, "Oh boy!"

Al wasn't sure he actually believed the selection on the radio was really being made deliberately by some celestial DJ, but all the same he offered a silent prayer of thanks that his friend's spirits had been lifted, and with them his own.

As they passed Junction 12, anyone who  _could_ have heard them - though few were eligible, and those who may have been tended not to venture out on nights like these - would have been serenaded by them both singing along to Wet Wet Wet's version of  _"With a little help from my friends"._ Then came Whitney Houston's Olympic  _One Moment in Time",_ closely followed by Aswad and  _Give a little love":_

… _troubles on our shoulders… sometimes seems too much... Only we can make it better, only if we try… Make this world a little better… Let's do what we can together…"_

"That just about sums up Leaping, wouldn't you say?" asked Al when it finished.

"Could be," asserted Sam, "but then, it could be referring t' all sorts o' t'ings: conservation, tolerance, you name it. 'Tis a good philosophy for life though, don't you t'ink?"

Being a devout conservationist and a closet humanitarian, Admiral Calavicci couldn't agree more.

Approaching Junction 13, Sam was reminded to turn his attention to the matter in hand when Climie Fisher told him to " _Rise to the Occasion"_.

His demeanor resumed a suitable seriousness.

"Time to scout ahead, Al," he instructed, "see if'n you can find dat note."

"On my way, but it ain't gonna be no picnic," quipped Al as he vanished.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**QLHQ**

**5:18 am**

Gushie shuffled into the Control Room looking disheveled.

"You're early," commented Sammy-Jo without looking up from her study of the readings, which thankfully told her that the Admiral and the Leaper had both partially relaxed – their vital signs no longer registering extreme anxiety. "Couldn't you sleep?" she continued conversationally.

"I-indeed not. In fact I haven't slept more than a couple of hours a night since the weekend," replied Gushie earnestly. He hadn't felt right since that business with the bomb, and whilst he'd put it down to shock at first he now believed some more insidious force to be at work. Even he had been at a loss to explain his irrational behavior; turning down a date with Tina; unable to sleep; uninterested in food; forgetful; short tempered and nervous. His muscles had been twitching too, so that his writing was shaky. And just when he felt he was making significant progress with his latest retrieval program calculations he had been finding it impossible to concentrate. Most of the symptoms were at last beginning to dissipate, but the insomnia persisted and it was leaving him feeling sluggish.

"If you're not well I can hold the fort here a while longer. You go back to bed and I'll have Ziggy round up someone else to relieve me in a couple of hours." Sammy-Jo offered with genuine concern.

Gushie looked embarrassed, even blushing slightly. He firmly and somewhat less than politely declined her considerate offer.

"Fine, whatever." Sammy-Jo shrugged and left.

Gushie immediately felt guilty and almost called her back to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he busied himself with Ziggy's controls, bringing himself up to spec on the Leap situation. Then he monitored them sporadically whilst returning to his calculations. He'd spent most of his spare time over the past four years trying to establish why they had been unable to bring Dr. Beckett home, and to rectify that unfortunate state of affairs. Never in all that time had he felt so optimistic of his chances of success.

One of their recent "guests" had, through a string of unforeseen events, learnt quite a bit about the way the Project worked. He had discussed the problem with Gushie, and given it a new perspective. His suggestions had brought Gushie closer than ever before to the possibility of a solution. As he scribbled now, he grew more and more excited.

**Bedfordshire**

**5:18 pm**

Sam left the motorway and took the turning on the right for Brogborough. He drove east for a mile and a half, up an incline, and then branched left off the main road, following the sign for the Picnic Area. After a short distance the blacktop gave way to gravel and the track wound back and forth up the hill to the summit. Turning the car's headlights to main beam to guide him part way, Sam jumped out of the vehicle and ran through a narrow passageway, flanked by pillars and foliage, to the picnic site itself.

The ground was uneven, and the persistent rain made it stodgy underfoot.

Sam had to slow to a snail's pace to keep from turning his ankles in the ruts. Right about then he'd have traded his Nobel Prize for a flashlight. Instead, he had to make do with a faint beam of light being projected from Al's hand-link coupled with the glow of his doorway to the Imaging Chamber, which the Observer had thoughtfully opened for that very purpose. Silhouetted in its frame, Al now gestured frantically to his friend from the bench furthest away from Sam, on his left.

"Over here, Sam. It's under this one. Watch your step; we're still ahead of time."

Sam turned towards him, moving as fast as he dared, despite Al's assurances. He was only vaguely aware of the vast panorama spread out before him in the valley below, seen now as nothing but distant lights in the darkness. By day, the view was quite impressive, with Lidlington Lake glinting in the sun and the towering chimneys of Stewartby brick works standing to attention like soldiers pointing heavenward. But the rain blurred what the night hadn't shrouded, so that the vista vanished like a chalk pavement painting under the street sweeper's hose.

Not that Sam was in the mood for sight seeing.

He only had eyes for the table his friend was indicating and the missive it was guarding. By the time he reached it, his breathing was labored and the heavy coat was twice as heavy from absorbed moisture. His hair clung to his forehead and his feet were soaked.

Aside from that and the interminable ache in his head, he felt on top of the world!

He leant on the table for a few moments while he got his breath back, and then bent down to rip the note from its moorings. It had been folded small and sealed in a transparent plastic sandwich bag with yards of sticky tape. Grasping it firmly in his hand, Sam squelched his way back across the quagmire to the shelter of the BMW. Once inside, he divested himself of the sodden coat, tossing it onto the back seat. Then he ripped open the bag and studied the contents. As before, it had been constructed from newsprint. This time it instructed Sam to get back on the A421 heading for Bedford and to follow it until it passed under a railway bridge, where he would find further instructions taped to one of the arches.

No distance was given, only the time limit – fifteen minutes.

Firmly attached to the note were a handful of hair and a bloodstained tooth from each of the girls.

Sam almost choked as he saw them, appalled at the brutality – the sheer barbarism of the kidnappers.

Throwing the note onto the passenger seat, heedless of Al's legs as he resumed his imaginary seat, Sam got the car rolling again. There being no road leading out ahead, Sam reversed his way along the track and thence back onto the main road, joining the stream of commuters heading homeward.

The road ahead was unlit, the street-lamps having petered out shortly after he left the off-ramp from the motorway, but at least it had striping and cat's eyes to keep him on track. Other than that he had only the headlights of the other vehicles and, as he crested the hill, the glimmer of far away civilization, to show him the way.

Descending the hill, the road curved round to the left and Sam kept his speed low accordingly, although the BMW gripped the blacktop smoothly despite the rain.

The huge lake was indiscernible on his right, but to his left he could just make out a blue flame atop a tall pipe, looking for all the world like a giant Bunsen burner.

White lettering on a green sign informed them that they were passing Brogborough Landfill site and the flame was burning off methane from the waste.

"Yuk! Gross-a-runi," commented Al, popping back into his seat having slipped out for a closer look. "The sooner these methods become obsolete the better. That dump is a real eyesore. Probably a health hazard too. I sure wouldn't want to live round here, even if it  _is_  handy for the water sports."

Sam just smiled indulgently. He not only sympathized with Al's concerns for the planet, he shared them wholeheartedly. But right now he had more immediate problems on his mind. Besides, it didn't appear to be a densely populated area.

The houses were few and far between, interspersed with fields hidden behind rows of tall thin trees and short stubby bushes.

Occasionally, a turning to the right or left led off to a village, but Sam barely registered their names. The radio still played, for the most part unheeded.

After a few minutes the road passed beneath an asymmetric bridge and then approached a roundabout. As expected, the designated route took him straight over – second exit. To his left a brightly-lit building proclaimed itself to be a  _Little Chef_ beyond which a second edifice was being constructed, whose signpost announced it would become a Travel Lodge.

At the sight of the cement mixer on the building site, Sam shuddered. Al nodded sympathetically as his friend referred to a recent Leap not yet erased from his memory, "If'n Oi  **never** see another one of dose t'ings again, it'll be too soon fer me."

They found themselves driving on a dual carriageway, which even boasted streetlamps for a short distance beyond the roundabout.

Sam dared to put his foot down a little. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the unfamiliar vehicle and he was still acutely aware of the ticking of the clock.

Now the lights came and went; illuminating further side turns to Shelton and Marston Moretayne and indicating the end of the double lanes, the resumption of the winding two-way stretch.

Sam may have overlooked the turnings at both ends of Stewartby had it not been for another quirk of fate, which led the DJ to pick just that moment to play ' _Doctorin' the Tardis'_ by the Timelords. The time traveler almost did a double take. He could barely make out the chimneys of the brickworks much less the gravel pits that dominated the area, but he knew exactly what they looked like all the same.

Al gave him a questioning look. "What is it buddy?"

"Wha..? Oh, nothing. Just that this is where they filmed the Dr Who movies when Peter Cushing battled the Daleks. Some coincidence, huh?"

Al merely nodded.

The road signs now indicated that the destination was Kempston, but it was still the A421 so Sam followed it diligently, ignoring exits to Wootton and Kempston Hardwick, and keeping the same bearing until he reached another roundabout.

This time the direct route was the A5134 for Kempston, and he had to hang a right, taking the third exit to keep on the 421, heading for Bedford and Elstow.

"Bunyan country" observed the scholar, who was adept at English Literature even if it was his least favorite subject.

Here there was another gentle incline, taking them over the railway and down the other side, passing a tall radio mast on their left – the proximity of which had radically affected the reception of the car radio. At the foot of the hill was a third roundabout and this time Sam saw the 421 was the first exit, making a long dog-leg with the original road. Having turned left, Sam soon saw the railway arches he sought just ahead of him.

It had taken them exactly fourteen and a half minutes from the picnic site. Sam looked towards his companion.

"I'm already gone." And true to his word, Al winked out.

**QLHQ**

**6:00am**

Still unable to sleep, Rusty had spent the last hour or so pacing his room like a caged lion, his "trophy" clutched to his chest as if it were a shield to protect him from all harm. And he needed protection: protection from all those around him who were out to get him.

Patti, the woman scorned.

Beeks, the interfering shrink.

The Admiral, who would probably have him Court Marshaled despite the fact he could remember doing nothing wrong.

Everybody.

And especially that damned superior know-it-all computer who'd denied him his moment of glory, and spoilt everything.

Not to mention the daemons that invaded his room at night. Not in his dreams – you had to sleep to dream. No – these were real. Hideous creatures that flew round the ceiling and swooped down at him and wouldn't let him sleep.

Well, he'd had enough of cowering. He was going to get rid of them once and for all.

With grim determination he left the room, pursued by his daemons, and fled down the corridor 'til he found what he was looking for.

There was a sound of breaking glass.

Then he turned to face his tormentors with a fire axe in his hand.

**Bedford**

**On the edge of town**

Honor drove her car into the lay-by, grabbed her purse and walked casually across to the public phone box. She had seen the old girl pull off the road at the railway arches and go in search of the note Henry had better have placed there. For a moment she had been tempted to follow. The archway was dark and no one was paying any attention. She could stab the old trout, grab the loot, about turn to Luton airport and be on her way to Paradise, leaving them all dangling.

But then, where would be the fun in that? She wouldn't have the pleasure of running the old girl ragged. Not to mention leaving too many loose ends.

The kidnapper checked her watch. Give Mary another eight minutes to get into the car park and worry for a bit, then the race would be on.

Honor laughed to herself. This was gonna be the best bit. She was really looking forward to this. She'd chosen the spot well. Close enough to the town centre to rush in if contact was lost, not too far from the holding site that she couldn't be back and finished long before the gullible old fool realized the girls wouldn't ever be coming back. It was also a little used call box, and she was unlikely to need to shoo away a queue. Of course, she couldn't _actually_  keep an eye on the woman's progress from here, but then 'Nanny' wasn't to know that, now was she?

This may not be San Francisco, the scale was much smaller, but it was Honor Brookes' home turf and she was in control.

That was what it was all about.

Control.

Power.

Just like her idol Scorpio from the  _'Dirty Harry'_  film. Honor was gonna give the bagman – or in this case the bag lady – the run around. It was the culmination of a long-held fantasy, to recreate that scene. It was Honor's favorite film, and she knew every word by heart.

She really admired Scorpio, not least for his single-minded determination, even having himself beaten up quite brutally to get revenge on Callahan. She aspired to be like him and shared his pleasure in killing – from her baby brother's pet gerbil (nasty smelly thing) to that cow in the sixth form who'd stolen her date and met with such an unfortunate 'accident' after the leaver's disco.

She had even considered signing the ransom notes 'Aquarius' in tribute, but it didn't have the same air of mystery and menace as Scorpio somehow. And there was one very big difference between her and Scorpio, gender notwithstanding.

She was much, much smarter than he was.

_She_ was not going to get caught.

Looking at her watch again, Honor opened her purse and took out the small change she had "borrowed" from the hotel cash register, along with a list of telephone numbers carefully garnered during her reconnaissance mission in town. She piled the coins up neatly on the top of the coin box and prepared to go into action.

"Show Time!" she whispered, with a sadistic smile.

0o0

Once again, Sam chose the shelter of the car to study his instructions. The rain was still teeming down and the archway was dark, gloomy and oppressive. While he was prizing the note from its moorings a train thundered overhead, it's deafening roar echoing through the tunnel like a wild beast in the throes of a violent death. It was not a place conducive to loitering, even if he were allowed the time, which he suspected he wouldn't be.

This time the note was slightly different. He was given specific directions to a car park near the river, but not told the location of a third note. Instead, he was told to leave the car but take the money and go sit on a low wall at the entrance to the car park where he should wait to be contacted. What form the contact would take was not specified.

Without waiting to be asked, Al went on ahead to get the lay of the land, but he had re-materialized by the time Sam had hung a left past the hospital. The car park, situated on the site of a twice-weekly market, Al reported to be well over two thirds full, being free from the normal charge during the evenings for the month of December to encourage late-night Christmas shoppers. As yet, Al informed his pal, there was no sign of anything or anyone suspicious.

They drove over a bridge, and Sam wished Ziggy  _hadn't_  chosen to point out that the river below was the Great Ouse.

"Don't remind me." Sam muttered. He swallowed hard; fighting to banish the images that haunted him, as the radio again added its voice with the top of the charts from the previous Christmas – the Pet Shop Boys' rendition of  _"Always on My Mind"._ Sam stared at it with incredulity.

Al declined to comment. After all, weirdness was the norm when it came to Leaping.

They were waiting for a pedestrian traffic control to turn in his favor so that he could make yet another left turn. Sam glared at it impatiently, willing it to go green.

They found the car park almost at capacity when they arrived, but Sam managed to commandeer a space timely vacated by a local shopper on the far side of the expanse, while Al made a second reconnoiter of the area.

"Sorry, pal," he reported on his return. "No sign of anyone but happy shoppers. Guess they have a vantage point or something and are waiting to see Mary. You're just gonna have to get wet."

With a resigned shrug, Sam hefted on the soggy coat, grabbed the bag, locked up the car and made his way to the wall, lugging the cumbersome weight with difficulty.

He had been sitting there, head bowed down against the downpour, for a couple of minutes, which felt more like a couple of hours, wondering if he had somehow got the wrong place, when a young woman came up to him, walking with a slight limp. She was in her late teens, with long brown hair right down past her waist, and a round, smiling elfin face.

"This could be it, Sam. Play it cool."

"As ever," answered Sam, out of the corner of his mouth.

The girl leant forward to speak.

"Are you alright, luv? You look ever so pale. Have you had a turn? Let's get you into the shops out of the rain. Littlewood's café's open, a nice warm cuppa'll do you the world of good." She was genuine in her concern, and held her hand out to help him up.

Sam put up a restraining hand, and gave her a reassuring smile.

"Oi'm fine, m'dear. Oi'm just waiting fer somebody. But God bless you for troublin' yerself t'ask." It was not the way he would normally phrase things, but it truly did his heart good to meet another caring soul.

"Well, if you're sure?" the young woman frowned, seeming unconvinced. Still, she bade Sam a Merry Christmas and turned away, muttering to herself that it was criminal of anybody to leave a poor old thing like that sitting out on a frightful night such as this.

"So much for British reserve," observed Al.

"Don't knock it." Sam replied. "That was real kind an' thoughtful o' her." He took a half breath and looked up at Al, frowning, "Do Oi look  _that_  bad?"

"Worse," admitted his friend candidly, though he tried to sound as if he were teasing.

"T'anks, Al," murmured Sam sarcastically, "Like, I  _really_ needed to hear that."

The ringing of a telephone interrupted further conversation. They both looked across to the nearby booth. So did the shoppers passing by, but they all just shrugged and carried on. Sam's hand went to his aching head.

"Why doesn't somebody answer dat?"

No sooner were the words past his lips than he exchanged a look of revelation with his partner.

Al gestured toward the phone. "I guess it's for you, Sam. Hang loose, play it by ear."

"Very. Funny." Through clenched teeth, glowering at the hologram.

Sam rose shakily and carted the bag over to the call box. He snatched up the receiver and listened.

"You got a carpet bag?" a woman's voice, which he instantly recognized as that of the kidnapper. She was making sure the right person had answered the phone.

"In me hand" stated Sam.

"What's your name, Irish?"

"Mary."

"Are you by your own?"

Sam glanced sidelong at Al, "T'be sure, you'll not be seeing anyone else wit' me."

"You better not be wired." The threat was implicit in the voice.

" 'Pon my soul, Oi swear we've not told the po-leece."

There was a long pause, as if the woman was trying to decide whether or not to accept Mary's assurance.

"Are you still there?" Sam was silently trying to ascertain if Ziggy was able to trace the call.

"Still working on it, Sam." Al was punching buttons and slapping the hand link, as was his wont.

Sam glared. The look said, 'Work faster.'

"All right, Mary," the way she said the name made it sound like a term of denigration, "this is how we play. I bounce you all over town to make sure you're alone. If I even  _think_ you're being followed, the girls die. If you talk to  _anyone_ – I don't care if it's a Pekinese pissing against a lamppost, the girls die."

Sam shuddered. "Are the girls okay?" he wanted to know.

For some reason the woman laughed then and Sam caught her whisper to herself. "Perfect. She's following the script."

He looked questioningly at Al, at a loss to know what she could mean.

Al tilted his head thoughtfully, as if trying to remember something. "Pekinese, hmmm Pekinese," he repeated under his breath. "Why does that line ring a bell?"

The woman neglected to answer Sam's question. She composed herself and then snapped, "Just shut up and listen. No car: too many one-way streets in Bedford. I give you a certain amount of time to go from phone box to phone box. It'll ring four times. You don't answer by the 4th ring, I hang up and that's the end of the game. The girls die. What time you got?"

Sam looked at Mary's watch, "6:09. Why?"

"Just listen. I'm watching you. Not all the time, but you'll never know when or where. Now, get to the next call box as fast you can, understand? Take the turning over the road to your left, River Street. Past the Beehive, go straight past the traffic lights; turn right at the bus station into Thurlow Street. Don't even  _think_ of going on to the police station. I hope you're not stupid. You'll see four phone boxes. One will be ringing. Better get going, Grandma."

Sam hung up the phone, grabbed the bag and headed off, his faithful companion by his side. He had to pick his way through crowds of excited shoppers, and the bag weighed him down, pulling and straining his arms and shoulders as he shifted it periodically from one side to the other. His progress felt painfully slow, but he finally spotted the booths ahead of him. One was occupied, and for one gut wrenching moment he feared that someone had inadvertently interrupted communications. Then, as Sam sprinted forward, another phone began to ring.

Al was already there.

"It's this one, Sam." He pointed to the booth diagonally opposite the occupied one.

Sam scuttled round, putting out his free hand to grab the booth and help him apply the brakes so he didn't overshoot. He snatched the phone from its cradle.

"Mary here," he panted.

No preamble, "Continue past Greyfriars Pub to the square. Cross it and go down West Arcade, then turn left. Cross the road to the call box on the corner of St Loyes and Harpur Street. You've got three minutes. Hurry up, or you'll blow it."

Honor laughed and hung up.

This time, Sam didn't even stop to replace the receiver. He dropped it and dashed off. The heavy bag bumped against his calf as he ran and threatened to topple him over.

Al went on ahead as before.

One or two shoppers looked Sam's way, surprised by the sight of a 'mature' woman sprinting along in such a hurry, and with such a load, but most were too engrossed in their own affairs, laughing and joking and singing along to the carols and Christmas songs being played in all the shops. In the square, the decorations were still being put on a huge Christmas tree, watched by mothers with young children, wide eyed with the wonder of it.

As he passed with barely a glance, Sam thought ironically of the lines from the poem,  _'What is life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.'_

Sam didn't slacken his pace.

Consequently, he was panting hard when he reached the third phone. It wasn't ringing. Sam looked at Al in alarm, too breathless to talk.

"Chill out Sam," his friend reassured him. "Get your breath back. It hasn't rung yet."

Sam dropped the bag and leant against the saffron yellow framework, which virtually glowed like a beacon through the pouring rain.

Al informed him that they were still unable to lock on to the kidnapper's phone, or the location of the children, but Ziggy  _had_  established that they were not currently in the same place. "We're narrowing it down, kid. The girls are somewhere within ten miles of here, but we can't say more precisely than that yet. It looks as though they could be alone though, which'll make things easier if we can get you to them before those slime-balls get back."

"That's a  _very_ big 'if', Al," replied Sam accusingly, his breathing almost back to normal. He stared at the phone, wondering why it hadn't rung yet when the woman had told him he only had three minutes. He lifted it up to listen for a dial tone, making sure it was not out of order, then replaced it hurriedly in case it was about to ring. It was. He answered it after the first ring, "Mary."

"Yeah." A soft giggle. "You sound like you had a  _good_  rest. You'll need it. I'm gonna give you a  _nice_ little run this time and you'd better make it, cos if you don't – dead girls. Yeah. Now all you gotta do is head straight down Lime Street ahead of you. You'll see the phone. It's a short hop, so I'll start dialing in 50 seconds." Again a laugh - but this time loud and cruel, almost maniacal, then, "Hubba, hubba, hubba Irish bitch." And silence.

Sam's legs were running even as his hand closed over the handles of the bag. In truth the street was not a long one, but to an injured and tired time traveler with a heavy load both in his hand and in his heart it seemed interminable. He felt every inch the old woman he appeared to be. All too soon the trill of the phone began and Sam had to run yet faster.

Chest-heaving, heart-pounding, lungs-gasping, head-spinning, feet-throbbing, sweat-pouring, adrenalin-pumping, silently-praying, 'Not much further, let me make it, Dear God let me make it', til he had the receiver in his hand, four rings down.

He was too shattered to announce his identity, and merely gasped into the mouthpiece.

"Who answered the phone?" snapped the woman, and before Sam could struggle to reply, she hung up. Sam sank almost to the floor, overcome by exhaustion and panic.

Incomprehensibly, Al looked smug. "It's okay, buddy. It's gonna be okay."

"You, you've f-found th-them?" stammered Sam, drawing himself up again with an effort.

"'Fraid not. Not yet. But the phone will ring again any second." Al gestured toward it as if he were a magician commanding it to levitate.

Sam was still finding it a strain to breathe, but the look he gave his friend was as plain as words, "How the hell can you be so sure?"

"I've just remembered why that line about the Peke sounded familiar.  _Dirty Harry._ "

"Wh-who?"

"You know, Sam, the film. Clint Eastwood. He did the same sort of run. This dame's recreating it, 'cept the locale is different. 'Feeding you near enough the same lines. That's how come the teeth, too. Oh, Sam!" Al's expression was one of horror and pity. "The villain in the movie took out the girl's tooth with a pair of pliers. If they…" He couldn't say it. "Poor kids."

Sam closed his eyes against the picture Al was conjuring up, and prayed to God that he could reach them in time to prevent them suffering further.

By way of confirmation of Al's theory, the phone rang.

Sam looked at his companion admiringly as he answered it. "Yeah 'tis me, Mary." He spoke haltingly, still fighting for breath, and also for control of his anger.

Silence - as if she was reconsidering whether to allow the second chance.

"H-hello? Hello?" called Sam anxiously, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Again the wild laugh, then, "Keep going to the end of the road, cross at the crossing, and then turn left down the High Street, right at the traffic lights into St Peters. Past the cinema – I wanna know one of the films that's playing, so pay attention. Then cross the road to the call box. Make it snappy. You got three and a half minutes. Pick those feet up, grandma."

More laughter, but Sam didn't stop to listen nor to get his second wind. He legged it.

At the traffic lights, Al waved him over the road. "It's easier to cross here, Sam. I've looked at the cinema. Impressive place: one of the largest screens in the country. Pity it'll be pulled down in a couple of years. They're showing something called  _'Married to the Mob'._ Last chance to see - program changes tomorrow."

Sam's answer was to change direction, sparing barely a glance for the statue of John Bunyan as he strained to re-oxygenate his bronchioles.

"Watch out for muggers." Al advised a bemused runner.

He arrived safely at the fourth box by the second ring.

"M-Mary," he gasped. His heart hammered against his ribcage – a prisoner who, wrongfully incarcerated, vociferously demanded release from his cell.

"Still with it, Irish? I'm impressed," laughed Honor, trying to think what Scorpio would have said. There were only four phone boxes in the film, but Honor enjoyed the idea so much she couldn't help but expand upon it.

She had even considered replaying the cross in the park scene – Catherine of Aragon's cross in Ampthill would have been an ideal stand-in. She could have beaten the Dad up – or, as it happened the Nanny - under the imposing edifice. She would have done it too! But the Flitwick safe house had been sold for real from under her, so she changed her plans. She could still enjoy herself this way.

Maybe she'd even give Henry the beating before she killed him. Yeah, that idea appealed. Make up for all the times she'd had to bite her tongue and come on sweet to him. Punish him for all the times he'd called her 'honey'; damn how she hated that! She could picture it now, just like in the movie, and Henry's face, bewildered and betrayed as she made him realize how he'd been used. Yeah, she was really getting off on that idea. She laughed out loud again.

Sam neither knew nor cared what she found so amusing. He was just grateful for the precious seconds of respite it afforded him. He told her the film title when she questioned him, then all too soon it was time to go again. Following her directions he went back the way he'd come to the Bunyan statue, then instead of heading back down the High Street he went straight over the lights into Dame Alice Street, past a terraced row of tiny, depressing houses and a couple of dingy shops. Across the road opposite the prison ('where you belong' thought Sam) and back to a different corner of the Christmas tree square.

Sam was wondering how much longer she was going to keep this up: how much longer  _he could_  keep this up. He was soaked through – inside and out – from the torrential rain and the sweat of exertion. He might have started this Leap fitter than Mary but the head injury had more than nullified that advantage. Now he was really feeling the strain of this relentless pace. Hobbling along on blistered feet, his stamina and his self-confidence were waning in equal measure.

He made it in time, but barely, stumbling blindly into the booth, wiping rain from eyes that frequently failed to focus fully.

"What's the matter, bitch? Getting tired? You cut it a bit fine that time, Irish. Now, pick those feet up. Leave the square down James Street; at the end cross the road. Next box'll be right in front of you. Are you running? Cos I'm dialing…"

Sam was running.

Thankfully, he had his own pet navigator to establish for him which one was James Street, so he didn't waste time searching. Sam traversed the quadrangle, picking his way through the crowds, and made his way to the road.

The heart of the town was largely pedestrianized, but buses were allowed here, and Sam had to wait for two to pass before he could cross. He fidgeted anxiously, moving round behind the second as it slowed to pick up passengers, his arm sweeping impatiently as if it sought to push the offending object out of his way.

Once more, he only just managed to pick up after the fourth ring.

Honor laughed again.

She was reveling in the power she asserted over this woman. She could hear how out of breath and exhausted the old girl was and took perverse pleasure in her suffering. What was that passage from ' _Pilgrim's Progress'_ she'd been made to memorize at school?

" _Thou are like to meet with in the way which thou goest, wearisomeness, painfulness, hunger, perils, nakedness, sword, lions, dragons, darkness, and in a word, death, and what not?"_

She may not be able to arrange the dragons or lions, but as for the rest, she'd subject her victims to as many as she possibly could.

If it proved all too much for her, and the old trout dropped dead of a heart attack, then so be it. Fine. As long as Honor could get to the money before it was hauled off with the body – and she was sure that could be arranged – then it'd just be an added bonus.

She licked her lips in anticipation of the possibility. An image of the old girl clutching her chest and collapsing in agony formed itself in her mind and brought a broad smile to her cruel mouth.

Life and Death: that was the  _Ultimate_  Power.

The Ultimate Thrill - every time.

She shook her head – back to business. It wouldn't do to let the expectation get in the way of the execution. Mustn't allow the stupid Irish bitch to rest too long. The fun lay in keeping up the pressure. So, she directed her prey down Silver Street to the circle of call boxes, instructing her to be sure and find the plaque in the pavement and read it carefully "Cos I'll be asking questions…."

She didn't know another pair of eyes could gather the next clue in this treasure hunt, or she'd have allowed less time. If not called the whole thing off.

Fortunately, she did not - nor could she ever - know that Someone had changed the players in her little game.

Al located the plaque on the corner outside the menswear store. It read:

ON THIS SITE STOOD

THE

BEDFORD COUNTY GAOL

WHERE

JOHN BUNYAN

WAS IMPRISONED FOR

TWELVE YEARS

1660-1672

Al repeated it verbatim as the runner approached his next stop.

One phone was labeled "Out of Order"; another had been vandalized, its receiver hanging precariously from a twisted coin box. But a third was ringing, 'til Sam prized it from its cradle.

The kidnapper's voice could not disguise her disappointment that another target had been successfully attained. She had underestimated the woman's stamina and determination. No matter, it just meant she got to play her game a while longer. It was satisfying to have found a worthy opponent at last. And even if 'Nanny dearest' made the distance and handed over the money to Henry, she was no threat to Honor's plans. So she grudgingly praised 'Mary's' efforts.

"You're not a bad runner for a wrinkly. Are you having fun?"

Sam didn't waste his breath explaining that he could think of about a million activities that would be more fun than his current pursuit.

"Well, enjoy this. Ahead of you is the High Street. Go right down it 'til you reach the River Bridge. Read the plaque on the corner, and then cross back to the phones. No cheating now, you're on Candid Camera."

Sam had no way of knowing she was bluffing. He felt as if he'd been running forever and his whole body screamed at him to rest, but he trudged on regardless. Whenever he felt like flagging, he pictured the faces of the two innocents whose lives he sought so desperately to save, and the image spurred him on.

He was running on pure adrenaline.

He made it, though he wasn't sure how, to the designated landmark, which announced in an old style font that:

On the shallow East of the 3rd Pier

Of the bridge

Stood the "Stone-House"

Wherein BUNYAN imprisoned

1675-1676

wrote the first part of the

Pilgrims Progress

"As I slept I dreamed a dream"

Sam recognized that this was the same bridge he had crossed by car on the way into town. He had come almost full circle. The traffic both into and out of town was fairly heavy, and when the phone started ringing, Sam doubted if he would get over the road in time, even allowing for a nearby pedestrian controlled crossing. This saw him partway across, but the final leg was a carefully timed sprint between two vehicles.

"Good thing Jaywalking isn't a crime over here, Sam." Al commented, when he'd re-swallowed his heart.

It transpired that this was to be the last telephone. Sam's relief was virtually tangible.

Sam was told to re-cross the road and then traverse the bridge, noting the details of yet another historical plaque as he passed. He was to continue to a bus stop by a church, memorizing also a blue plate on the side of an adjacent building. He needed to hurry, in order to catch the 106 or 107 to the end of the line at Harrowden Road. From there he should go into the Turnpike Pub, where someone would make contact. Then, "Better get going, Irish. The bus is almost due."

Getting back across the road was even trickier than the first attempt and swallowed up precious seconds. Once over, he dashed up to the crest of the bridge where Al was studying the notice, and paused to take a look himself while he tried to ease the savage stitch in his sides and the searing pain in his lungs.

For a change, the event commemorated had nothing to do with Bedford's most famous son. Instead it informed:

THIS BRIDGE WAS OPENED TO THE PUBLIC

FREE OF TOLL, ON THE FIRST DAY OF JULY 1835

IN THE MAYORALTY OF

GEORGE WITT ESQR M.D.F.R.S.

AND IN THE SIXTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF

KING WILLIAM THE FOURTH

Al entered the details into the hand-link for reference.

Sam plodded on, feeling as if he were an automaton, obeying orders with no free will of his own. Certainly, if he'd had any choice in the matter he'd have been inclined to be kinder to his poor aching head and exhausted body. As it was, he pushed himself to the limits of endurance and way beyond, ignoring his pain to focus on each new goal ahead as it was revealed to him.

Al centered himself on the next sign to discover that:

IN THIS HOUSE

JOHN BUNYAN

SOUGHT

SPIRITUAL HELP

FROM

JOHN GIFFORD

IN THE 1650'S

Consequently, he didn't immediately notice that when Sam ran beneath the large road sign, the carpet-bag – which by now felt as if it contained gold bullion rather than paper money – caught on one of the thick metal upright poles and so finally carried out its ever present threat to trip him up, sending the Leaper sprawling across the pavement and knocking the last vestiges of wind out of him.

This far from the town centre, there were no crowds of shoppers to help him back to his feet. Nor to flag down the rapidly approaching bus, whose driver was concentrating on the traffic ahead, and whose passengers were too wrapped up in the examination of their purchases and plans for the holidays to be aware of a lost pilgrim who'd fallen by the wayside.

Sam struggled to his feet just in time to see the bus disappear around the roundabout.

Whereupon he virtually collapsed to the ground again and all but crawled, dragging his burden the last few futile feet to the bus stop as if his mere presence there could recall the vanished vehicle. Once there, he leant, or rather sagged against the friendly lamppost that bore the stop sign. He hugged his sides close; as if afraid they might split asunder. He was wheezing asthmatically, yet his sobs were not solely an attempt to regain control of his respiration. Raindrops mingled with and camouflaged his tears of self-reproach.

He looked forlornly at Al, trapped and drowning in his own miry Slough of Despond where  _'ariseth in his soul many fears and doubts and discouraging apprehensions'._

Waiting to be told he'd just consigned Tori and Shelley Anne to a vicious, bloody death, Sam wept.


	12. Chapter 12

**Los Angeles**

  
**Wednesday 6th** **January 2003**  


**Police Headquarters**

Captain Maxwell rose from his chair and came out from behind his desk, his arm extended and a broad smile on his scarred face.

"Mr. Beckett! Good to see you again. The years have been kinder to  _you_ I think." He broke off a warm and enthusiastic handshake to indicate his own ravaged torso. His left leg was perpetually stiff, the corresponding hand missing two fingers. His face was twisted and pinched and drawn up by a series of scars which ran from jaw to receding hairline, bisecting the left socket, which held a glass eye. Yet he bore his disabilities well. Plastic surgery may have failed to mask the bone-deep gashes totally, but it had prevented the effect from being too grotesque. And Maxwell remained surprisingly sprightly. He also retained a cheerful disposition, despite having good cause to be embittered.

David Beckett's reaction was a mixture of horror, pity and confusion – not necessarily in that order. "I- I'm sorry," he began, apologizing on two levels, "do I know you?"

"Have I changed  _that_ much?" a self-deprecating snigger as he waved his guest to a seat and re-took his own. "I  _was_ only a lowly Sergeant then, of course," thought Maxwell aloud. "I took your statement in the hospital, remember?"

David squirmed and wrung his hands. "No. Not really, I'm afraid. I've uh, had a few problems with my memory since, uh, since…" he trailed off.

Now it was Maxwell's turn to apologize.

"Pardon me, didn't mean to stir up a lot of bad stuff. You took quite a hammering. I'm not surprised you're still having problems. I still get a few myself."

David wasn't sure if he was expected to ask the policeman his story, but he was spared the decision when Maxwell volunteered an explanation.

"I was working homicide at the time. 'Tried to arrest some lowlife punk holed-up in an old abandoned factory. He decided I should leave by a third storey plate glass window, and he wasn't waiting around for someone to open it. The rest, as they say, is history. What the hell." He shrugged. "Got me promoted all the way up here, didn't it?"

He leant back in his chair and gestured expansively – master of all he surveyed. His laugh was genuine; David's was embarrassed.

"But enough of my ramblings," Thomas Maxwell could see the other man's discomfort. He saw it daily. It seemed that most people he encountered had trouble coming to terms with what he himself had accepted without rancor.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods today, anyway?"

David picked up the large brown paper parcel he'd leant against the desk. Placing it carefully on top, he opened it solemnly to reveal its ominous contents.

" _This!_ " he replied. "This was hung on my door last night."

Captain Maxwell examined the wreath, puzzled. Off his uncomprehending expression, David enquired, "You  _did_ know Ruggiero broke out of jail?"

"I  _should_  have known." Maxwell was annoyed that no one had seen fit to inform him. "You think  _he_ sent you this?"

"Who else?" countered David, "and before you ask, no I have  _not_ suffered a bereavement recently." As an afterthought, he muttered almost to himself, "Unless you count the death of my marriage."

"What was that? I didn't quite catch…"

"Nothing. Just that my wife left me last night. Long story. Never mind."

David was absent-mindedly toying with the edge of the ribbon. Maxwell pulled it gently from him.

"We'll have to keep this as evidence."

"Of course."

"To be blunt, I'm afraid it's unlikely to help much. A dozen or more florists could've put it together, and even if we do trace it, chances are it was ordered by phone using a stolen credit card. I doubt very much we could pin it on Ruggiero, even if we catch up with him. Not that sending flowers constitutes a criminal offence in any case. Unfortunately, at this stage there's uh, there's not a lot we  _can_ do," he spoke with genuine regret.

"At this stage?  _At this stage_!" David's voice rose in pitch, his gut knotted with fear. "In other words you're telling me your hands are tied. You are powerless to do anything until he actually kills me. Then you may just get lucky some time years down the road and get to lock him up for it. That's a _great_ comfort, let me tell you." His tone was dripping with undisguised sarcasm. Yet his hostility was not meant personally, nor was it taken as such. It was just the outpouring of a man scared for his life.

Maxwell tried to calm him. "Short of round the clock protection, which the budget wouldn't sanction, there ain't much on the cards, agreed. But aren't you over-reacting? You've crossed swords, so to speak, with this SOB twice before and bested him. You struck me as being such a take-charge sort of guy, ready to take on the world. Okay, so you may be older, but then so is he. So, well, to be frank, I'm a bit surprised to see you in such a panic."

David slumped in his chair, his head bowed and shaking slowly from side to side. A hundred thoughts ran through his head: All the hazy crazy memories and the far greater lack of memories concerning that chapter of his life. How could he make this man understand? He didn't understand himself.

In the end he simply said, "I really wasn't myself back then. I  _know_ I couldn't handle it this time. I'm a dead man."

"I sincerely hope not, you'll spoil my falling crime statistics." Maxwell forced a laugh. "Seriously, I'll find out who's following up on the escape. Bring 'em up to speed. Let 'em know Ruggiero may be in the area. I'll get the patrol cars to try and keep an eye on your place as much as possible. Leave your number and I'll let you know if we come up with anything. Anything at all. And if he leaves you any more uh calling cards, get in touch. I'll help in any way I can." He extended his hand again, and David shook it, though he felt he was getting the brush off.

He left, thinking that there wasn't a soul on Earth who gave a damn about him.

He was wrong.

**Bedford**

Sam was desolate, his expression one of pure and utter wretchedness. If his eyes were indeed the proverbial windows to the soul, the view therein revealed that part of him to be lost in a wilderness of guilt and despair.

So near and yet so terribly far.

One careless moment had meant failure.

Failure meant he probably wouldn't Leap, but that was the last thing on Sam's mind. He didn't give a damn about Leaping; he only cared that the girls were going to die, and it was  _his_ fault. He'd killed them just as surely as if he'd slit their throats himself. He felt like a murderer and it was not a role that sat comfortably with him. He kicked the carpetbag in frustration and anger and sheer helpless grief.

He wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs, "Noooooooooo!"

To deny it before God and Man.

But the scream raged inside him unreleased. He was too choked with emotion to utter a sound; too miserable to think beyond the moment and his all-consuming guilt. He would gladly have lain down and died on the spot. He only wished he could trade his wretched life for theirs. Of all the highs and lows of Leaping, this must surely be the nadir.

Right then, Sam agreed wholeheartedly with Lyle Strickland's assessment of Britain as a "Godforsaken country". How could he have overcome so many obstacles, endured so much, come so close, for it to end like this?

It made no sense.

It defied belief.

It was so unfair.

How could God abandon – not him, he cared nothing for himself, his self-loathing knew no bounds – but how could God abandon those two sweet innocent young girls, when He'd sent Sam to save them? They were  _meant_  to live. It  _mustn't_ happen. It  _couldn't_ happen. Yet, because of his ineptitude, it was probably happening at that very moment.

His tormented soul reached out to Al, awaiting the final damning confirmation of his sin.

Al had turned aside, unable to bear the total anguish in every line of his friend's weary face. At first he hesitated to punch the buttons and have their worst fears confirmed, clutching like Sam at the notion that if it wasn't said aloud, maybe it wasn't true. Then, just as Sam's denial had turned to gut-wrenching acceptance, so Al resigned himself to face the inevitable. Reluctantly, he programmed the query into the hand-link and waited to hear the death sentence that would break Sam's heart.

And Mary's.

He swallowed, dreading the moment he would have to face her and break the news, for he was under no illusions that the unenviable task would fall to him. Nor would he duck it, though he'd take Verbena in for back up. His maudlin thoughts were distracted by the squeal of the link. With grim determination he looked at the reply.

Then looked again.

He hit the contraption with the flat of his hand.

He shook it.

He hit it again.

He looked perplexed, swore under his breath, and then shook the hand-link once more.

At first Sam was too absorbed in his misery to notice what was happening. Then he watched with mounting panic – what was it that could be worse than what they already knew?

Rape?

Surely not so young?

But there were people, sick twisted people who violated children.

He forced the thought away. It was too hideous to contemplate.

What then?

An eternity passed between one heartbeat and the next, until his friend turned to face him with a sparkle in his eyes.

Yet still Al paused and looked again. Then, "Are you  _absolutely_ sure about this?"

"About what?" screamed Sam silently.

"Gushie, is Ziggy…?" Al listened as Gushie evidently reassured him that Ziggy wasn't malfunctioning.

Sam stared at him in desperation, his eyes pleading to be put out of his misery, whatever the news.

"Ziggy can't explain it," offered Al, "and neither can I, but," he paused again, as if unable to voice something so incredible. Only when he thought that an instant further delay would result in apoplexy did he finally declare, "The odds of you getting the girls back alive have just  _risen_ by 11.7%!"

Whereupon Sam all but collapsed yet again; this time overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his relief.

**QLHQ**

Corporal Kincaid's progress through the maze of corridors in the underground complex was marked in blood. In his wake three colleagues lay bleeding, unable to raise the alarm and unsure what had hit them.

Ziggy was sure, and without consulting anyone else dispatched a pair of security guards to apprehend the rampaging Rusty, whilst Paramedics were sent to aid the wounded.

Security intercepted Ralph on level seven but was unprepared for what met them.

Rusty was storming along, the axe raised before him, shield at his side, glancing frequently behind as if keeping track of a pursuer. He was wild-eyed, his mouth twisted into a maniacal leer, and his face held such menace that his would-be captors were stopped in their tracks, mesmerized.

His pale blue pajamas, which he'd donned out of habit in the vain hope of snatching a few Z's, were streaked and smeared with red, as were his face hands and hair. Bright red prints of bare feet glistened behind him.

So much blood - none of it his.

Both guards had handled high-risk opponents before, dangerous criminals intent of breaking through restricted areas, but all their foes had hitherto been rational human beings. Rusty no longer appeared so. He was the Grim Reaper with his scythe, and they were enthralled; transfixed; spellbound; rooted to the spot.

Three daemons lay vanquished – two more blocked his progress. He was still terrified, yet somehow he was also euphoric. These devils were  _not_ all-powerful - they  _could_  be destroyed. And he was the one to do it. They were motionless - waiting, trying to ensnare him, lull him into a false sense of security. He wasn't going to be fooled. He could take them, both of them. He paused himself, so they couldn't predict which way he'd go. Then, with a blood-curdling ululation, he sprinted forward, swinging the axe wildly before him.

Belatedly, the monsters raised their arms, and the stun-beams shot out aimlessly from their fingertips. Rusty dodged them easily and in a flash he was upon them, hacking them down, heedless to their pitiful cries of surprise and horror and pain.

"I denounce your power, daemon creatures!" proclaimed Rusty. "You shall  **not** take me! Not even here in your own lair."

The thought triggered some awareness deep within – that he knew his way around this lair, and knew too how the daemons were tracking him. Now he really could beat them. He'd cut off their eyes and ears, and then he'd strike at the very heart. He'd destroy the supreme daemon that controlled them all.

The one called Ziggy.

Sprinting off, he soon found what he needed to short out the security cameras throughout the Project.

**Bedford**

Sam stood at the bus stop, dazed and confused, and waited for the miracle the odds had promised. He was rewarded almost instantaneously when a dark green Ford Escort pulled up level with him.

"Need a Jekyll, luv?" enquired the driver, leaning over and opening the passenger door to underline the invitation. She was a short woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with tightly permed salt-and-pepper hair. She wore a moss green herringbone tweed skirt, topped by a leaf green trevira short sleeved jumper and matching cardigan, all of which could have come straight from Mary's own wardrobe, as could the 'sensible' shoes.

Seeing Sam's bemused expression, she expanded, "Jekyll an' Hyde, ducks – ride."

"Of course Sam; rhyming slang. Go ahead."

"T'ank yer kindly, m'dear," acknowledged Sam, grabbing the bag and climbing in beside his savior. "Oi missed the bus, so Oi did," he explained as he fastened his seat belt and settled his booty on his lap.

Al took up position 'in' the back.

"I noticed, luv. You came a right cropper back there. I woz stuck at the crossing lights. I flashed me lights at the bus for yer, but 'e didn't notice."

"T'anks anyway. You're a life-saver," breathed Sam, adding 'literally' to himself.

"Yer looks like you went through a car wash on a push bike!" observed his chauffeuse.

"Dat's about how Oi feel, so it is." Sam agreed, as he steamed in the warmth of the car.

Assuming her passenger would want to follow the bus route, the driver approached the roundabout in the middle lane, and then asked, "Where to, ducks? Connie's cab is at your disposal."

"Oi've t'meet somebody at the uh, the Turnpike pub. Do you know it?" asked Sam hopefully.

"Know it? It's only an 'oot 'n' a holler from me dorter's 'ouse. I knows a short cut. You could even beat the bus." Connie grinned and completed her introduction, "Name's Constance Blackman, but everyone calls me Connie."

"Mary McGillicuddy," countered Sam, "Pleased to meet you, Connie."

Pleased was an understatement.

"Wiv a moniker like that, you'd be Irish, am I right?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?" put in Al with a snigger.

"That Oi am," confessed 'Mary' and Al could 'see' the snarl Sam was conferring upon him, just from the back of his head. "And you sound, uh Cockney, is it?"

"As they come, ducks. Gen-u-ine, original, born wivin the sahnd o' Bow Bells an' proud on it."

Her accent was so thick, so archetypically cockney, that Sam would not have been surprised had she been wearing the full Pearly Queen regalia, feather in the cap and all.

"Looks like we's bofe a long ways from our roots, and aht on a night wot aint fit fer man nor beast. We must be orf our trolleys!"

Sam merely smiled. Who was he to argue?

They reached the traffic lights and as promised Connie did not turn right as the bus had done, but continued straight down London Road.

Sam sighed, immensely grateful to be doing nothing for a while. It was only now that he'd stopped that he realized just how thoroughly exhausting the chase had been.

His head was not so much swimming as drowning, or at best barely treading water. Suddenly, he was just so desperately tired.

Fear had a way of doing that.

"D'yer want me to put that orf, luv?" asked Connie, thinking her passenger may be objecting to the tape she was playing.

"Not at all," replied Sam, who hadn't really taken much notice of it. Now he did, he smiled broadly, for yet again the accompaniment fitted the situation, more appropriately than Connie could possibly have imagined.

"Oi've always liked show-tunes," he told her.

"Me an' all, ducks, Better than this modern rubbish where yer can't make out the words or nuffink." Connie started singing along to the soundtrack of ' _Oliver'..._

"As long as he needs me…"

In other circumstances, Sam might have joined in too.

When he didn't, the driver stole a glance at her companion. "You still looks a bit shaky, Mary. Did you 'urt yerself when yer fell?"

Sam realized he was trembling.

A reaction to muscles pushed too far and suddenly relaxed perhaps, or to extremes of emotion experienced so fast upon each other.

He'd been too wrapped up in how dismally he'd failed the girls to notice if he'd sustained any new physical injuries. He conducted a mental self-examination. The coat had padded him from the worst of it. It seemed he'd escaped with nothing worse than grubby, grazed palms and bruised knees.

While he was working out how to respond, his aide-de-camp gave him new orders from General Ziggy. "Confide in her, Sam. She knows the territory. Ziggy says she's one of the good guys."

"Like Oi hadn't noticed," Sam responded out of the corner of his mouth. Then he held out his hands, addressing the driver, "Looks like Oi got off lightly."

"There's some wet wipes in the glove box, 'elp yerself. They're antiseptic. I keeps 'em fer when me gran' children are in the car. Y'know, dirty nappies an' the like." Connie grinned. "Robert's two, and Becky's only 3 months."

"Lovely, T'anks again." Sam said as he cleaned himself up. His hands stung when he applied the astringent cloth, but the wounds were superficial, with no sign of infection. "Oi t'ink Oi'll live," he pronounced.

"'Ave you got grankids, ducks?" Connie asked conversationally, giving Sam the perfect opening.

"Not exactly, though they  _do_ call me Nanny. Oi look after two darlin' wee girls. Shelley-Anne she's nine, and Tori's seven. Only Oi didn't do a very good job of it, which is why Oi'm here. Dey got kidnapped and Oi'm on me way to pay de ransom." He tapped the bag on his lap and sighed anew; sick at heart and consumed with guilt at the appalling situation he'd allowed the girls to get into.

"Dat's why Oi was in such a hurry."

"Oh my gawd, you're joshing aint ya?" Connie paused for a mere beat, "Nah, course not. Wot am I finkin'? Yer wouldn't kid about a fing like that. You poor dearie. No wonder yer shakin'. But don't go blamin yerself ducks. I s'pect yer did all yer could. I'm sure t'weren't your fault."

Sam rubbed his neck, all too aware of the swelling at the back of his head. He  _had_ fought for the girls, but not hard enough. Nowhere near hard enough.

He should have been better prepared. They should never have been taken. His conscience was not so easily assuaged.

"You're very kind, but Oi  _am_ responsible and Oi'm goin' t' get dem back. By all dat's Holy, Oi swear Oi'm goin' ta get dem back."

His new friend caught the look of grim determination on his face, and nodded slowly in agreement. "I believe you will, ducks. I believe you will. An' if there's anyfink I can do to 'elp, you just let me know. Anyfink at all, y'hear? I reckon as 'ow 'Im upstairs musta put me on that road t'nite fer a purpose."

"She could be right, Sam," cut in Al, to the accompaniment of squeals from the hand-link. "Odds of finding the girls just shot up again. We're almost on even money now."

Sam allowed himself a flicker of hope, but still did not relax.

"May He be praised for it," Sam answered them both, "And yerself too, Constance Blackman." His response could not have been more sincere.

Connie merely grinned, and then laughed heartily, bursting into song once more with the tape, which to both Sam and Al's utter amazement once more continued the evening's habit of providing just the right song for the moment. This time, needless to say, the soundtrack had reached  _"I'd do Anything"._

"Unbelieveable!" muttered Sam, and a smile forced its way to the corners of his mouth.

A short time later, however, he became earnest once more, as his chauffeuse announced: "This is it, dearie. We've arrived, an' t' prove it – we're 'ere!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Bedford**

Honor Brookes hung up the phone, but did not leave the call box. She cast around in all directions to be sure she wasn't being observed, ready to lift the receiver again if challenged. Not a soul in sight – perfect.

Well, almost.

She had hoped to have the thrill of a dash into town to collect the bag and gloat over the prostrate figure of a dying Nanny. To hide the cash, and then tell Henry the stupid bastards hadn't paid; that they'd been betrayed. Persuade him they'd been left no choice but to kill the girls. Watch him squirm while she slit the little sluts' throats.

She didn't care whether he'd have gone along with her or not, though he probably would have done, in the end. She was so persuasive, and he was such a gullible little puppy dog. Even if he hadn't the stomach to do the deed himself he wouldn't dare try to stop her, which suited her fine. She'd far rather have the buzz first hand than just witness his clumsy attempts.

Then she'd have had the pleasure of pointing out how she had used him, and never cared a jot about him, and how she really despised him, and then watched his pathetic hurt expression as she rejected him. Maybe she'd let him beg and plead a bit, denying the inevitable, before finishing him off too.

The more she thought about it, the more she thrilled to the idea of giving him the beating she had spared the Nanny. Yeah, she'd make him suffer even more than Scorpio had made Callahan suffer, and Henry wouldn't lift a finger to defend himself. Oh no, dear devoted Henry wouldn't hit his beloved Honor, his 'honey'. Yuck, how she hated the epithet. She'd make him suffer for each and every time he'd called her that, and she could recall every last one. They'd be marked out in kicks to his groin, and his sides, and his chest, and his face. She'd notch them up in broken ribs and count them off in crushed fingers.

By the time she'd finished he'd be begging her to kill him. She'd enjoy that. Not that she'd make it easy. Oh no. There'd be no quick release even then.

Honor had noticed a two-pronged pitchfork in the barn: two lovely long sharp spikes. That would do nicely. He'd be rolling on the ground in agony from her beating and she'd force him on his back, hold him down with her foot, and then skewer him in the gut with the tines. She'd heard, or read, or seen somewhere that stomach wounds were the most painful and slowest cause of death. She had long wanted to test the assertion. Henry would be her guinea pig. She'd drive it in, twist it, draw it slowly out and then sit and watch his life's blood seep out in the hay.

Standing in the phone box picturing it, anticipating every deliciously tortuous moment of it made her flush with an ecstasy that reached from her face right through to the depths of her womanhood. It took a measure of self-control on which she prided herself not to give in to the moment and to hell with anyone who came along and saw. Give 'em a cheap thrill! But no, there would time enough for self-gratification aplenty later - on a bed strewn with bank notes.

For the moment, checking her watch, she turned her attention to the other side of the street and the bus stop almost opposite her vantage point. No one was waiting and few ever alighted here, so she had to stay alert. She would only have moments to scan the occupants as the bus passed by.

There it was now, just pulling round the corner, on time for once. She craned her neck to study the faces. Not too many of them thank the gods. An old woman sitting alone – that was her!

No, wait – it wasn't - just some senile old cow out Christmas shopping.

Damn her.

The Nanny wasn't on board.

So, it  _had_  been too much for her after all. Honor hastily gathered her things together, irritated despite getting what she'd been wanting all along.

This was the worst possible spot.

Too near South Wing A & E.

If the old trout had collapsed near the bus stop, she could be whisked off before Honor could retrieve the cash.

Not that she was unprepared for the scenario. Honor had thought of  _everything._

That was why she would succeed where others before her had been caught.

As soon as she'd learned that the Nanny would be making the run, she began working on contingencies; and practicing her Irish accent. So that she could play the grief stricken daughter who'd been separated from Mum while out shopping and blamed herself for the heart attack – "if only Oi'd been with her." By the time she got to the hospital, the tears would be flowing and she'd be oh so convincing. Then, if "mum" were somehow still alive, she'd finish her off subtly during visiting hours and then claim the deceased woman's possessions,  _especially_  her carpetbag. She'd even typed herself out a couple of letters from 'friends' in the name of Bridget McGillicuddy, and a very realistic looking library card. "Oi'm so sorry, Oi don't have my passport or driving license or anyt'ing like dat wit' me - only a credit card wit' me signature, here. (That one was easy; she'd been forging credit cards since she was sixteen.) Oi didn't know Oi'd be needing t' prove me identity. Mum will tell you who Oi am." Except of course she'd make sure the daft old bat couldn't be asked. And bluff about Mum going do-lally if she tried to denounce her. Old people forgot loved ones all the time. She could brazen it out no matter what. She was so good at selling lies; she should have been an Oscar winning actress. It was an inconvenience to have to do things this way, but nothing more. And if by any chance the stupid bitch had just missed the bus and was still waiting at the stop for the next one, why then she'd simply give her a lift.

Yeah, she'd give her a lift all right. A lift to a nice deserted spot she knew where she could do the old girl in and dispose of the body in peace. Yes, she was prepared for any eventuality. No matter what, she'd be ready for it. As she drove into the outskirts of town, she was supremely confident.

The one part of the equation she hadn't included - couldn't possibly have accounted for - was the presence of one Dr. Samuel John Beckett and his invisible friend.

o~O~o

Dr. Samuel John Beckett got out of the green Escort, thanking Connie profusely for her timely assistance and turning to enter the pub, his 'shadow' by his side.

"'Ang on a tick, ducks," the cheery Cockney called him back. "Where yer goin' from 'ere?"

Sam hadn't thought that far ahead. He considered for a moment before replying.

"Oi suppose dat depends on what happens inside. Oi'll keep following orders til Oi get de girls back, den Oi'll take dem home to their Da."

"An 'ow d'yer reckon on doin' that, duckie? Click yer 'eels free times an' fink of 'ome? I ain't abaht t'see yers walk it. 'Ows about if'n I just wait 'ere, eh? Meter ain't even tickin' or nuffink. Wot d'yer say?"

Sam hesitated, on the one hand grateful for the offer and eager to accept any help that increased his odds of success, yet at the same time fearful of exposing another innocent to danger. "You're very kind, but Oi couldn't…"

She forestalled his objection. "I ain't got nuffink better t'do. An' tell yer the troof I ain't gonna get a wink a shuteye less I finds aht yer got 'em back safe 'n' sound. So you ain't gonna send me away, now is yer?"

"Now if'n' you put it loike dat, how can Oi object?" laughed Sam. This woman was good for his spirits.

She waved him inside; showing him fingers crossed followed closely by a 'thumbs up'.

The pub was set back from the road at an angle, with a forecourt of tarmac dotted with wooden benches. The impression was that in the summer it would have taken tables with enormous parasols, where patrons could enjoy a pint and a ploughman's lunch in the open air.

The Inn sign – depicting a couple of yokels in a dog cart being greeted by a jovial landlord, all in 18th Century dress – swayed back and forth in the wind and the rain, creaking slightly in its wrought iron frame.

Sam hurried over to the building, a quaint stone clad and timber paneled affair of varying heights, with large wooden framed windows, which glowed with a welcoming orange light – an echo of the red and yellow Christmas lights that highlighted the lines of the various rooftops on the staggered lines of the building.

Once through the main door, he found himself in a large hallway; the door to the main bar ahead of him, while off to the right the clank of cue balls sinking pots and the thud of darts embedding into corkboards announced the presence of a games room.

It was warm and dry inside and the atmosphere was friendly, in stark contrast to the sinister purpose that had drawn him here. Since the game Sam was engaged in had far more serious stakes than those of a convivial round of dominoes, he drew a deep breath and opened the inner door to enter the bar area.

In many ways the décor echoed the grand hotel he'd left in London, though obviously on a more modest scale. The thick pile carpet was a dark swirl of navy blues and maroons. A dado rail at waist level separated the walls into mahogany paneling below; regency striped wallpaper in maroon and cream with gilt detail above. The L shaped bar nestled in one corner beneath a low ceiling, edged in wood, complementing oval wooden panels in the cream textured wallpaper of the higher main ceiling. Above the window seats – wooden benches with padded insets patterned with deep red roses and peonies – a huge old-fashioned ceiling fan with wide gold blades suggested the splendor of a bygone age. Elsewhere, dotted across the floor, were dark wood tables surrounded by wheel-back chairs with the same padded seats that were also present in the half-dozen stools by the bar. A huge bay window at the end was partitioned off by a small wood and glazed division, which would originally have been the fireplace before the single storey extension was added.

There were perhaps a dozen people partaking of the local brew, sitting in groups of three or four. All were men in their fifties or sixties, salt-of-the-earth types, with rugged features and ready smiles. One or two even rose to their feet as "Mary" entered; others nodded politely in her direction. Several were puffing cigarettes, mostly the roll-your-own variety, and the air was thick with their smoke.

Sitting at the bar, flicking coasters into a huge deep ashtray with a nervous twitch that did nothing for his aim was a man who was failing miserably in his attempt to blend in. Even in this subdued lighting, Sam saw the straggly black hair and beard, the swollen cheekbone, the orange-peel complexion, and recognized the 'waiter' who had attacked him the night before.

Sam walked over to the bar and sat down casually on the next-but-one stool, putting the bag down between the stool and the bar with deliberate slowness. A barmaid in a slinky black skirt and crisp white open-neck blouse bustled over to serve him.

"What'll it be, dear? Something to warm you up on this miserable night? A nice glass of stout perhaps?"

Resisting the temptation of a warming shot of brandy, Sam – trying to stay in character - ordered a tomato juice and reached into his pocket for Mary's purse.

The 'stranger' put out his hand, "This one's on me, an' I'll have another beer." He tossed a handful of coins on the counter.

"T'ank you, sir," acknowledged Sam politely, though he felt that 'cur' would be a more apt description. He gave no clue that he had recognized his erstwhile assailant.

Henry slid over to the vacant barstool between them. His brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to remember something.

Sam took his drink from the returning barmaid and sipped it.

Disconcertingly, Al took up position sitting cross-legged on the bar, momentarily pretending to rest an elbow on a beer pump.

"You might have had some vodka in that! Ha ha – Bloody Mary!" Al tormented Sam, who glared at him, then pointedly ignored his sidekick.

"Irish?" enquired the kidnapper, rather too bluntly to be conversational.

"Uh-huh," confirmed Sam, sipping some more of his drink, and trying not to let his hand shake.

"On 'oliday? Sightseeing?"

"You could say that." As cultural exchanges went, this one was standing still.

Henry's lips were working, as if he were practicing his lines before saying them aloud.

"Been on the Bunyan trail, 'ave you?"

Sam thought of the landmarks he'd been ordered to remember.

"Oi've been around a few," he replied, "Loike de house where John Bunyan sought spiritual help from John Gifford in the 1650's."

It was evidently the right thing to say. Sam took his time over his drink while waiting for his next cue. Outwardly calm, he was churning inside.

"Yeah, I know it." Henry took a swig of his own drink, the frothy head clinging to his beard and moustache as snow on pine branches. "Just over the _bridge_." The last word was stressed in far from subtle emphasis.

Sam trotted out his quotation like a well-rehearsed actor, anxious to get to the punch line. Although it was infuriating that this man and his partner had obviously read the script - Hell, they wrote most of it - yet it had been denied to him, forcing him as ever to hone his improvisational talents. Trouble was, he seldom had more than the vaguest outlines of the plot to go on and frequently felt as if he were destined to be forever playing Don Quixote in A Comedy (or Tragedy) of Errors, out of synch with his fellow thespians.

Since English Literature had been the one and only subject he hadn't really enjoyed that much at school, he was as sure as could be that none of his degrees had been in theatre skills, and no Oscars vied for position with the Nobel Prize on his mantelshelf. Still, he would act out his part and hope to God that his performance would be good enough to ensure the happy ending that had been missing from the original edition.

The kidnapper beamed triumphantly and drained the rest of his beer in one long self-satisfied gulp. Then he wiped his face fungus with the back of his hand, smacking his lips appreciatively.

He nodded toward the bag, as if noticing it for the first time.

"That isn't full of souvenirs, is it?" he asked pointedly, glancing round to make sure no one was paying any attention. He overlooked the White Admiral adorning the countertop who was perpetually pounding his hand-link in hopes of locating the girls.

Sam stared Henry straight in the eyes, "Dere's only two souvenirs Oi'm a-wantin' t' take home from dis trip. If'n Oi gets dem, you can have dis." As he spoke, he nudged the bag over toward the man with his foot, by way of confirmation.

Henry's face cracked wide-open, showing yellowed, chipped teeth in a parody of a smile. Then he laughed. "Good. Excellent. Then listen up. Leave that where it is, and walk out. Don't turn around. Go back into town, to the car park where you left your car. The brats'll be tied up in the ladies toilets by the time you get there. You can 'ave 'em back and welcome. All I gotta do is make a phone call an' they're on their way."

To his credit, Henry actually believed he was telling the truth about that.

At last Sam caught Al's eye, looking to his friend for advice. Predictably, before speaking Al studied - and thumped - his hand-link.

"Sorry, Sam, still not enough of a lock on the girls. Best to keep to what they say for the moment, even though the odds of them keeping their word ain't worth a say."

Sam set his jaw and clenched his fist. Why couldn't Ziggy  _ever_ come up with the goods  _before_ the eleventh hour? He frowned at Al, who shrugged apologetically, and then they turned and left.

**Somewhere in Bedfordshire**

It was quiet, too quiet.

Unable to see through the blindfolds, unable to move for the ropes binding them together, the girls turned to their ears for external stimuli. So far, they'd heard doors banging and heavy footfalls on uncarpeted floors. They'd heard the gruff angry voice of the man who'd fed and threatened and hit them. They'd heard their own terrified hearts beating in their breasts, and the sound of nervous breathing. They'd heard keys turning in huge echoing locks. They'd heard – and pretended they couldn't – the tiny scampering and scurrying of industrious mice, no doubt feasting on the crumbs of cheese sandwich the girls had dropped. They'd heard the rain pounding outside, dull and muffled for the most part, but rattling on glass in a far corner – a window, but not one that offered any real promise of escape.

They'd have to get free of the ropes first: ropes that cut into their wrists and ankles, chaffing the flesh and restricting the circulation. Each sound brought new fears and imaginings, the only small comfort for each being the sound of the others frantic panting to tell the sisters they were not alone.

Yet now the sounds had mostly ceased; the mice had left to forage further a-field; the wind had changed direction, blowing the rain away from the window, the banging and key-turning and shouting and stamping hadn't been heard in the longest time. The quietness was too eerie, too scary to bear.

Tori and Shelley-Anne found themselves babbling to each other, filling every second with the first thing that came to mind, anything to keep the silence at bay and banish the terrors it contained.

They had thought that they dreaded the hollow clanking of the key in the door, which heralded the arrival of their jailer. Each time they heard it they had been sure the man had come to kill them and had shrank away, trying to become invisible and thus escape their fate. Now, however, the long silence led them to believe they had been abandoned, left in this desolate place to starve slowly to death. An image of their dying bodies becoming food for the scurrying mice – or maybe they were rats, euwww – haunted Shelley's mind – a waking nightmare that would not go away.

Faced with  _that_  alternative, the coming of the bad man suddenly held a lesser degree of horror.

**Los Angeles**

**Wednesday evening**

David Beckett sat in the dark, listening to the steady hum of the dialing tone from the phone by his side. He was not about to make a call. The handset had been off its cradle for the past two hours or more - ever since the seventh call. At first it had been silence or heavy breathing. Then a distorted voice had commented on what he'd had for lunch, or his tie, or some other trivial detail that let him know he was being watched, and closely.

Guido Ruggiero was not going to be content with killing him.

No way.

He was going to torment him first, drive him mad with fear, making him jump at his own shadow.

Raising his glass to his lips with trembling hand, David gulped his third Scotch and started at some distant sound.

Ruggiero's plan was certainly working.

David was too terrified to venture outside his door, which he'd locked and fastened with five newly purchased heavy-duty bolts. He was afraid to slip into his garage to tinker with his beloved blue T-bird, his oldest and most treasured possession, for fear it had been booby-trapped. He was even too scared to switch on his lights, in case his silhouette made him too easy a target. He couldn't relax with his trusty computer, normally his favorite way of unwinding, for the memory of Edgar's suicide by high voltage message haunted him.

As he stared at the bottom of his glass and wondered if he dared move to refill it, David Beckett pondered the old adage about a coward dying many times before his death. It was true – he was the living proof of it. Except living wasn't the right word. This wasn't living – it was clinging desperately to life, but it wasn't living.

Maybe he'd be better off dead.

**Bedford**

Honor had sworn vehemently when she'd found the bus stop deserted and she was swearing now at the ineptitude – as she perceived it – of the jumped up little tramp on the desk at A & E, who had kept her waiting all this time just to tell her that she couldn't tell her anything!

According to the records, no Mary McGillicuddy had been admitted this evening, nor had anyone answering her description. She wasn't there, had never been there, and her daughter should be relieved. Perhaps she had simply stopped in town for a coffee or something?

Honor found it easy to play the distraught daughter. She was feeling pretty distraught at the thought of having lost track of all that money. Where the Hell could the stupid old trout have got to? What if someone else had gotten hold of the bag? It didn't bear thinking about. It was  _her_ money, and she was going to find it, one way or the other. The receptionist suggested that if she was really that worried - of course she was, what an idea! - then she could notify the police, although it was a bit quick to issue a missing person alarm.

Getting the police involved was positively the last thing Honor wanted, but she bit her tongue and smiled sweetly. "You're probably right. She's most likely got chatting somewhere; you know how old folks love t'gossip. Oi'll check around a bit more before we bother the po-leece. T'ank you." Almost choking on the words, she turned tail and departed.

Damn.

Where to now?

After several minutes sitting stewing in her car, she headed back along the bus route to the pub in hopes that she would find some sign of the Irish bitch on the way, or that by some miracle Henry would have met her and got the money. If she got that far and still came up empty – no she wouldn't even consider the possibility.

She had to find the money, with or without the Nanny attached.

She just  _had_  to.


	14. Chapter 14

**Bedford**

**7:08pm**

Sam got back into his private taxi and was about to ask Connie to return him to the car park in town when a squeal from Ziggy made him pause.

Al leaned forward from his perch in the rear of the car and yelled triumphantly in Sam's ear, "Bingo! Sam, we got 'em buddy! We got a lock on the girls. Ziggy says they're alone, but not for long. Move it, Sam – Manor Farm, Wilhampstead. Go, Go, GO!"

Sam had started at the auditory onslaught.

Connie looked at him with concern. "You okay, ducks? You looks like yer seen a ghost."

Al spluttered with indignation, "Ghost, indeed! Huh!"

Sam glared at him over his shoulder.

"Oi'm fine, m' dear. Now Oi know where de girls are. Do you know where Manor Farm, Wilhampstead is, by any chance?"

For a moment Constance looked confused, repeating the name to herself until the penny dropped. "Oh, you means Wilstead. Yeah, I knows it right enuff. One family reunion coming up."

Fastening his seat belt, Sam felt a surge of optimism stronger than any he'd allowed himself before. He was going to rescue the girls. They would live.

Thanks be to God; and Ziggy; and Connie.

**QLHQ**

Rusty was homing in on Control. Deprived of sensory input even Ziggy's advanced microchips were unable to track his progress, or indeed to predict his intended destination.

The idea of its own vulnerability did not occur to the computer. It had been invaded by a hacker once before and dealt with him in short order, since when digital access had been restricted still further. A full frontal physical assault was outside the parameters of plausibility, and so was not considered worth preparing for. Yet this was precisely what was about to happen.

Rusty had dispatched four further colleagues who'd had the misfortune to get in his way. They lay bleeding and helpless, and he neither knew nor cared if they would live or die. Now he'd turned his attention to the door ahead, just at the end of this corridor, which led to Ziggy and his ultimate triumph.

The not-so-all-powerful daemon was about to meet its Nemesis.

Gushie, edgy still from lack of sleep yet blissfully unaware of the madman only moments away from his workstation, was restless with excitement. He'd been scribbling away at his calculations all through the night, pausing only when Ziggy or Al demanded his attention. Tonight, he seemed inspired and everything was falling into place.

Now, with the approaching dawn, he felt truly enlightened.

He knew the answer.

He was convinced of it.

So confident was he that he didn't bother to submit his hypothesis to be analyzed by Ziggy. He didn't need the computer's cautionary quotation of the odds – he  _knew_ it would work, and the timing was perfect. In fact he was both amazed and annoyed that he hadn't seen it before.

It was so simple really.

Gushie was beside himself with impatience, he had to contact the Admiral and prepare Sam. It was crucial not to let the right moment slip past.

**Bedford**

Al mustered all his self-control not to let the excitement or more accurately the elation, sound in his voice as he asked Gushie to repeat his assertion. He knew all too well the effect that false hope could have on his friend. Gushie's enthusiasm was infectious, however, and the Observer was soon hooked on the idea of Sam's imminent return.

The subject of this earnest exchange was about to bust a gut – overhearing one guarded half of the conversation, unaware of its implications and prevented by the presence of Constance from cross-examining the infuriating hologram behind him.

Then, after what seemed like forever, Al decided to let him in on the news he'd waited so many years to hear. "Sam, it's incredible. We, uh I mean Zig… that is Gushie…" Al's tongue was tripping over his teeth trying to find the words he was so eager to impart.

Sam adjusted the sun-visor, which had been left lowered and contained a vanity mirror. Though the hologram produced no reflection, Sam knew Al could see  _his_ face, and the hundred questions etched therein.

Catching the gesture, then the expression, Connie spoke reassuringly, "Don't fret, ducks. We'll soon 'ave it sorted."

Sam conferred upon her a 'brave face' sort of half smile. Not only were her words comforting, she'd given him an opening of sorts. "Oi just wish Oi knew what the divil was goin' on, dat's all."

"Retrieval," blurted Al. "Gushie's finally got the numbers to add up and he says the timing is just right. Looks like you're on your way home, pal." All this in one breath.

Sam was aghast.

This was positively the last thing he expected to hear. He ran a whole gamut of emotions in a matter of seconds. Then, once his disbelief had turned to joyous acceptance and anticipation and his thrilled heart had caught the beat it missed, his ecstasy turned to resignation.

It wasn't that easy. It never was.

Ever mindful of her passenger's odd behavior, which she attributed to stress and the eccentricities of the Irish, Connie was once more the chirpy Cockney. "Chin up, dearie, look 'ere. We's on the Cook's Tour of Bedford. Over to our left, ladies an' gents, we 'ave the magnificent Cardington 'angers, 'ome to the ill fated R101 airship."

Sam, found himself – as so often before – able to answer both companions in a single well-phrased statement. "At any other time, Oi'd be delighted to hear all about it. But Oi'm afraid Oi can't t'ink about  _anyt'ing_  else until Oi've got my wee poppets back safe 'n' sound. Dey're all dat matters now."

"B-but Sam, we're talking  **retrieval.**  Do you…"

Sam cut him off with a look flashed over his shoulder. He didn't want to hear. Couldn't afford to be distracted by temptations so strong as to be almost irresistible.  _Almost._ To anybody but the 'terminally selfless' Dr. Beckett, as Al was putting it.

Sam's reply was that of all bored children on cross-country holidays or long distance visits to Grandma's. "Are we nearly there yet?"

"Not far now, ducks," supplied Connie, while Al was still checking. "Fings'll be better soon, you'll see."

In actuality, things were about to get a whole lot worse.

0o0

In the Turnpike, Henry stared gloomily into the dregs of yet another beer and decided it was time to graduate to whiskey. His nerves were shot to pieces. It was all going wrong and he hadn't a clue what to do. So he just sat and waited: the bag of money nestled under his seat like an egg he was trying to hatch. It had been going so well, perfect down to every detail just like Honor had promised – until he'd tried to give her the signal that he'd got the cash. When she'd failed to answer the phone he was sure his heart was going to quit on the spot. What if she'd been caught? What if the cops had her? What if they caught  _him_ with the money? They'd lock him up and throw away the key.

Perhaps he should just walk out and leave it where it was. He hadn't touched it, had he? 'Course not. His prints weren't on it. He was sure they weren't.

Well, sort of sure.

In which case he could slip out unnoticed. Go and let the girls loose himself. Go home and act like nothing happened.

Except Honor was much too smart to  _stay_ caught, even if she'd been caught, and he didn't see how she could've been caught. So she'd be looking for him sooner or later and how could he tell her he'd screwed up and left all that money in the pub? She'd never forgive him.

So, he went back to the payphone in the vestibule and he tried phoning again.

_Still_ no reply.

He resumed his seat and ordered another drink.

What was he supposed to do? Honor knew thinking wasn't his strong point. She'd told him so often enough. So why wasn't she around to tell him what to do now? He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand this waiting. His palms were all sweaty. He rubbed them on his jeans and downed the whiskey the barmaid had brought him, signaling for a refill. Then he changed his mind. "Bring the whole bottle," he ordered, slamming a couple of notes down on the counter. After all, there were plenty more in easy reach; and his own 'bottle' had most definitely gone. As in totally lost it.

0o0

Connie had turned down an unlit winding side road and slowed her car to a crawl.

"Can you pull in somewhere outa sight?" asked an ever-cautious Sam.

"Sure as eggs is eggs, ducks," grinned Connie as she complied. She was really quite enjoying the adventure. All it needed was a "follow that cab" and she'd really feel like she was in a movie.

Not that she didn't appreciate the seriousness of the situation, she did. But the gravity of the girls' predicament could not totally eclipse the thrill of being involved in their rescue. She'd not had this much excitement since the day she'd been evacuated as a child.

Of course, Mary went and burst her bubble with the classic line, "Wait here in the car where it's safe."

And unlike the giddy young heroines in the films, she'd do as she was told. Going off to find the hero - or heroine in this case, but the idea was the same - always resulted in lots of screaming and a need to be snatched from the jaws of death – or worse.

Connie had her head screwed on better than that.

"They also serve who only stand and wait," she rejoined.

Mary gave her a thumbs-up and got out of the car, heading purposefully back round past the Dutch barn towards the house as if she were following someone. Considering it was dark and muddy underfoot and the old girl was a stranger to these parts, she moved with surprising confidence, thought Connie. The girls were lucky to have her on their side.

In daylight, and in other circumstances, Sam would have loved it here. His happiest memories – of the precious few that he still had – were of his childhood years back on the farm in Elk Ridge.

In its heyday as a working farm, this one too had a wonderful atmosphere. Lambing sheds, configured in a huge letter E, replaced the milking sheds of his youth, but a farm is still a farm and this one had everything to make it special, and wonderful, and just like home. It had – character - from the low sheds to the quaint little pond and the crooked tree.

Then there was the house itself. What tales it could tell.

A sign over the door boasted that SW had restored it in 1911, though the identity of SW was uncertain. Unknown to Sam, behind it was hidden the secret of a six foot square cubbyhole bricked up to conceal who-knew-what. Had Honor known of it, she'd no doubt have placed the girls inside, but it was well disguised and even the previous – and subsequent – owners had not worked out how or where to access its interior, though builder's plans clearly showed it to exist. For all anybody knew, it could have been a priest hole and may yet contain the skeletal remains of some unfortunate buried alive within.

The brick-and-stone clad exterior formed an L shape, and from the back the hangers at Cardington were clearly visible. The interior was a mix of huge rooms and little alcoves, high ceilings and low, with many interesting nooks and crannies. The front door was a solid wooden portal studded with wrought iron knobs and an enormous lion's head knocker, which Sam didn't use. He tried the handle, but without any real hope of it's yielding to his grasp.

It didn't.

"Oi don't t'ink this'd open wit' a credit card, even if'n Oi had one." Sam commented to Al as he tested it with his shoulder. It didn't even rattle. "So how in God's name am Oi supposed to get in?"

He was tired. His head throbbed with the relentlessness of a ship's engine – hollow and persistent and wearing on the nerves. The rain, which had eased for a time, now deluged him with renewed vigor. He was soaked through and aching all over and thoroughly miserable.

Never before had the conflict between duty and desire been felt so keenly.

Retrieval – dreamed of, longed for, blessed retrieval.

To have his own life back at last. To soak in his very own bath, rest in his very own bed; shave his own face in the morning.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to go Home.

Nothing in the world except to get back the lives of two innocent children whom he'd placed in deadly peril. Two children who were so close he could almost hear them breathing.

Yet, perhaps both goals  _could_ be achieved.

Perhaps he could save the girls  **and** Leap. Leap all the way. Leap his last final glorious Leap.

Home.

_If_ he was quick.

Al had said that timing was important, but perhaps, just maybe, there was enough of a window of opportunity for him to do both.

Window; yes – a window. There may be a window open somewhere. There  _had_ to be. He began circumnavigating the building, trying every casement he passed. Driven by this new sense of urgency, he raced around the house, heedless now to the rain; the rough gravel underfoot; his blistered feet; his aching head. All he could think of was gaining access to the building and saving the children and still being home in time for tea.

Al didn't need telling what was going on in his friend's mind. His own thoughts were running along much the same lines.

"Mind if I take a short cut?" he asked Sam, waving his hand-link at the wall. "I could, uh, find out where you're headed?" he suggested, with a casual grin.

"Be my guest." Sam paused to make a small mock bow, and then sped on.

"Gushie!" commanded Al predictably, "Center me on the girls."

Al found himself on the opposite side of the house, in the dark, dank cellar. He took one horrified look at the girls – still in their nightclothes which had spots of blood on the front from where they'd had their teeth pulled – and their grim surroundings, and leapt back over the building in a single bound.

Sam was just trying the kitchen window. Al's sudden appearance made him jump backwards a good foot or two, gasping and clutching at his chest.

"Gee-sus, Mary an' Joseph! What d'ya wanna go an' do a t'ing loike dat fer?" he hissed.

In spite of his genuine regret for startling his friend, Al sniggered at Sam's outburst. He couldn't help it – that accent and phraseology were just so _un-_ Sam. The mirth was short lived, curtailed both by Sam's stern glare and by the seriousness of the situation.

Al waved at the window with the hand-link as if it were a remote control capable of unlocking it.

"This way leads through, Sam. They're in a cellar and the accommodations leave a  _lot_ to be desired." He gave Sam a telling look.

Sam braced himself and heaved at the window, trying to raise the sash. It rattled, but didn't open.

"Try again, buddy," encouraged the Observer.

Grim determination lent Sam strength. Every muscle in his body went taut with the effort, and his face turned several shades of scarlet. Then all of a sudden the window responded with a jolt so sharp it almost knocked him off his feet. Sam hoisted himself up and scrambled in. The hem of his tweed skirt caught on a tap in the kitchen sink as he entered and he tumbled onto a cold hard tiled floor, legs and arms akimbo.

Al slid gracefully through the wall to find Sam rubbing his shin.

"You really must hone your B & E skills, Sam," he admonished as the Leaper picked himself up from the floor and huffily straightened his clothing.

Something between pride and stubbornness cured Sam's limp after the first couple of steps.

0o0

"Wh-what was th-that?" whispered a terrified Shelly-Anne to her sister.

"It didn't sound like  _th-them,_ " replied Tori, trying to feel reassured by the thought.

Shelley was inclined to agree with the comment, but found no comfort therein. It had been so utterly quiet for so long that she had thought never to hear a sound from outside again. Had thought she'd welcome one if it came to break the stifling stillness. Yet now the new sounds brought with them a whole new set of terrors.

**Something**  had come crashing in to the room outside, above them, and now seemed to be coming closer.  **Something**  breathed heavily and seemed to snarl and growl and whimper like a wounded animal.  **Something**  sounded mean and dangerous.

**Something**  was rattling and banging at the door. It sounded angry and frustrated at not being able to get in. Shelley was glad now that they were locked in – that the  **Something** was locked out. Shelley was in no hurry to be eaten.

0o0

**Something**  was rattling and banging at the door. It sounded angry and frustrated at not being able to get in. Gushie was glad of the Security lock – which kept him in and the  **Something**  out. He was in a state of extreme nervous agitation, keyed up for the retrieval attempt and annoyed at the delay in implementing it. He could do without this unwarranted distraction.

What was keeping Dr. Beckett? He should have freed the girls and been ready to Leap ages ago. Surely he wasn't going to let a little thing like a locked door stop him now?

Rusty was not about to let a little thing like a locked door stop him now.

Not when his ultimate goal lay just beyond: The Daemon's Lair. The personification of Evil that called itself Ziggy.

He would hack it to pieces as it wallowed in its pit, thinking itself invulnerable.

It had another think coming.

Rusty laughed maniacally as he struck at the palm operated security pad, which admitted only authorized personnel.  _He_ was the invincible one, and nothing;  **nothing** was going to keep him from fulfilling his mission.

At his bidding the stone rolled away, revealing the cave of the Hideous One within.

"Eureka!" he cackled triumphantly as he burst through the doorway.

0o0

Sam had tried pushing the door; pulling the door; hefting the door with his shoulder 'til it ached; kicking the door with well placed flying kicks, which, hindered as he was by his attire, had merely resulted in his landing on his tushie – hard.

He was sweating and he was swearing, an activity he was not easily moved to.

Finally, exhaustion and reason led him to abandon his assault and join Al in a search for the key.

If the goons had it with them, he was scuppered.

Precious moments ticked by while they searched. They looked in obvious places like the ledge above the door, the drawers in the kitchen cabinets, even the cookie jar for heaven's sake. They looked on the coat pegs and under the front door mat. They looked in and under the plant pot where a poor neglected spider plant spread its dead brown tendrils across the counter top. They looked for signs of disturbance in the dust that coated everything, hoping somewhere it would show them recent usage. It was a slow process with only the multi-colored glow from the hand-link to guide their efforts.

Eventually Sam stopped in the middle of his umpteenth circuit of the area and asked for the fiftieth time, "Are you  _sure_ Oi can't get in through the cellar window?"

"It's too small!" Al's patience was wafer thin. "The key's here somewhere, Sam. Keep looking."

"Oi've looked  _everywhere!_ " snarled Sam, stamping his foot.

As good luck or God/Fate/Time/Whatever would have it, Sam's foot was in exactly the right spot to dislodge a loose floor tile with the gesture of frustration.

Man and hologram exchanged glances and wordlessly bent to examine it.

Sam turned it over almost reverently, as if afraid of further disappointment, or as if uncovering the treasure of some ancient civilization. Nestled in a little hollow was indeed a treasure, one greater than all of Tutankhamen's gold - a dull cold heavy beautiful key.

Sam bent forward slowly at first, reaching out and all but stroking it. Then suddenly he grabbed it and raced for the cellar door like a kid on Christmas morning descending on the tree.

"Eureka!" he chuckled triumphantly as he burst through the doorway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Bedford**

Honor pulled into the car park of the Turnpike and switched off the engine, ripping her keys from the ignition vehemently. She was furious that she no longer had total control of the situation. She had planned it all so meticulously, allowed for every possible eventuality. She couldn't understand what had become of the stupid Irish bitch. It was infuriating to have to admit that there had to be something she had not foreseen.

Not that she was ready to give up - not by a long way.

Honor Brookes was not finished yet.

And if the unthinkable  _should_ happen and the money be lost to her – well then, first she'd make Henry pay for the failure of the plan. Somehow it had to be  _his_  fault. No way could it have been down to her. So Henry would get that beating.  _And_ the painful death from the stomach wound. And every other indignity and agony she could imagine inflicting upon him.

Honor could imagine quite a few.

The grotty little brats could be made to watch it all. That idea appealed.

Then it would be their turn, after Henry had finally gasped his last – how long would that take? – the longer the better, she was in no danger of discovery. She could make it stretch out for days if the feeble little creep didn't curl up his toes too quickly.

Then, after Henry, she'd make the little bitches suffer. One at a time, turn by turn, while the other watched, she'd try out every form of torture she knew, and invent a few more for good measure.

She'd have the time of her life, until at last she ended theirs.

After which she'd simply pack up and move on. Bide her time. Revise her plan to eliminate even the slimmest chance of failure.

Then pick a new target and fleece them instead. She could live with that.

Yeah. If Henry didn't have the money, she'd treat this as a dry run, a dress rehearsal. Next time, maybe she'd find somewhere for her victim or victims to die of slow suffocation, just like Scorpio had. Though she still thought that wasn't as much fun as her way. It was too remote, impersonal. She preferred to  _see_  her victims suffer - to twist the knife, or whatever, in person. That was far more satisfying. Nothing in this world turned her on so much as the sight of someone or something writhing in agony because of her, cowering before her, pleading for mercy.

Hah!

The word wasn't in her vocabulary. Mercy was for weak fools. She was strong.

She looked in her rear-view mirror, tidied her hair and straightened her clothes. She set her jaw. Oh, yes, she was strong. She was not about to let one minor setback get to her for long. Having affirmed that, she was once more totally in control. She got out of the car and went to find that idiot Henry.

**Los Angeles**

By the time the Donahues arrived to answer David's frantic summons, they found their friend more or less a basket case. He'd been pretty incoherent when he'd phoned, babbling, not making any sense at all. But they knew from the news that Ruggiero was out, and Bill had heard through the grapevine at work that Sally had left him. It didn't take an Einstein to dot the i's and cross the t's. They had hurried over as soon as they'd got a baby-sitter for the children.

Getting in had taken a bit longer.

The place was in total darkness and looked for all the world like nobody was at home. Nor had been in a while. Peering in at the window through the tiniest gap in the curtains revealed not the slightest hint of movement, no sign of life at all.

In fact for a moment Cat was afraid that they were too late. That Ruggiero had gotten there first and murdered their youngest son's godfather.

He was a complicated man, strange even in some respects. He'd changed since they first got to know him: suddenly, radically - almost like he was two different people. But he remained a good man, and a good friend.

Cat cared about him as she would a brother, and the boys thought that "Uncle David" was the best. He was even starting to let Sean help him tinker on his beloved T-bird, getting him to pass tools and teaching him the different parts of the engine. Caitlin couldn't bear to think those days were gone.

Eventually they made themselves known beyond doubt at his door and David had dragged them in, locking it behind them. Even then he'd stared at them hard; as if still unable to believe they were indeed who they claimed to be. Once satisfied he ushered them into a dark corner and they all hunkered down.

He was totally disheveled and looked ill, his eyes sunken in his grey face and his shoulders hunched. When he spoke, his voice was a harsh rasping whisper and his head darted about as he searched, ever vigilant, for any sign of movement.

"Y-You're  _sure_ you saw no one?" he asked again, grabbing Bill by the arm.

"Relax, there's nobody out there." Bill assured him.

David was not so easily convinced.

"Oh, he's th-there all right. He's wa-waiting for me to drop my guard. He's just, just waiting for the right mo-moment to k-kill me." David was breathing hard, fighting to get every word past his trembling lips.

"Calm down, David. We're here now. We're here to help you," soothed Cat in her most maternal voice.

"Yeah," agreed Bill, "we're here for you - just like you were there for us when we needed you."

There it was again. Reminders of the time he'd been a hero and knew nothing about it.

How crazy that made him.

Yet somehow it was different now.

Cowering here in the dark with Bill and Cat he suddenly understood that their friendship was  _his._ It may have started in the  _Twilight Zone_ but over the past seven and a half years he had built on that friendship.  _He_ had been the one to take the vows of godfather at Patrick David Donahue's christening, despite being surprised to learn he'd already agreed to it. And he'd been pleased to fulfill those duties.

Yes. Seven years and more of times he  _did_ remember. Good times. He'd worked with Bill, shared beers with Bill, and gone on photo-shoots with Bill. He'd enjoyed meals at Cat's table. Him: David Beckett. Not the strange shadowy figure that everyone said had been him but that he had no recollection of.

With a shock he realized that it was only because of  _Sally_  that the blanks  _really_ drove him crazy. He understood at last that she had played on his confusion, amplified his ambiguities, and fed his fear of insanity to create a dependency on her. She was not really a bad woman; there had been some good times with her, too. It was just that she was a spoilt rich child and knew no better than to use people for her own amusement. She'd had some romantic notion of "happy ever after" with the man she had rescued from certain death.

He couldn't  _be_  that man, but she hadn't seen that. She'd thought if she kept harking back to it she could bring him out- this white knight she'd dreamed of. It was sad really, when you thought about it. They were never meant for each other, they were worlds apart, yet each had felt the other was just what they needed. Poor misguided fools. Neither had set out to hurt the other, it was simply that what they had was built on shifting sand.

In that moment of revelation, that epiphany, David felt closer to Sally than he had throughout all their years of marriage.

He also felt more at ease with himself.

He even felt a little backbone growing.

He may never comprehend what had happened back in '95, may never remember the hows and the whys, but that didn't mean he had to be afraid of it.

This was about the here and now, and it was up to him how he handled it. If he stopped trying to measure up to the ghost of that other David Beckett and feeling he was bound to come up lacking, he could be his own man. And  _this_ David Beckett was not going to carry on being a craven coward good-for-nothing. He was still terrified of Ruggiero, as he had every right to be, but he was blowed if he'd let the creep scare him to death.

Why  _should_ he do the job for him?

If Ruggiero wanted him dead, he'd have to do it personally. David wasn't going to make it easy by being a sitting duck.

"You know," he said to his friends, his voice surprisingly calm and even, "it's just occurred to me that I'm going about this all wrong. I'd probably be much safer –  **we'd** probably me much safer –" all at once he was aware that he'd placed his friends in peril by bringing them here – "out in the open, in a crowd. Let's go and find us a whole heap of witnesses, shall we?"

Once again the Donahues were astounded by the sudden dramatic change in their friend, but they were pleased to see it.

**Manor Farm**

**Wilstead, Beds**

Sam could tell the girls were beside themselves with fear. When he finally gained access to the cellar he found himself at the top of a short flight of stone steps. It was almost pitch dark inside, but he could hear their breathing – fast and gasping. At least it meant they were alive! As he made his way carefully down the steps, he began talking quietly to reassure them.

"Don't you fret now, poppets. 'Tis only your old Nanny come to take you home."

Louder gasps then, in disbelief. Followed by babbling chatter as they expressed their relief and delight at the sound of a friendly voice. Incoherently they vied for attention, both trying to tell Nanny everything, all at once.

"Hush now, I'm coming. It's all over now. You're safe."

He was feeling his way down the brick wall, which was damp and uneven with salt deposits that had 'bled' from the bricks and gathered in clumps having nowhere else to go. Sam felt the chill of the room through the damp clothes, and shivered despite the overcoat. "The poor wee lambs must be half-frozen," he whispered to Al, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring them a change of clothes and coats and blankets.

At last he'd made his way over to the middle of the room where Tori and Shelley sat back to back. His hair and clothes had picked up a few cobwebs on the way, and the thick stockings were now ventilated with holes where he'd caught them on splinters of stored furniture, further barking his shins and adding to his bruises. He bent down and set to work untying the girls. It took a while, for their bonds were well knotted and hard to grip with cold, grazed hands.

Once freed, they both flung their arms around him, tears streaming down their grubby faces, almost knocking him over backwards with the strength of their emotions. For several minutes he did nothing but hold them close, warming them and restoring their circulation with a brisk rub and loving hug, stroking their hair and tenderly kissing their foreheads and calming them with the soft lull of his voice.

He even managed to get a couple of giggles out of them by suggesting he should have announced his arrival with "I'm Luke Skywalker, I've come to rescue you," and then by conjuring up the picture of their Nanny jogging round Bedford culminating in his undignified fall. After which he told them of Connie's kindness and how she was waiting to drive them back to town.

During this time, Al had been standing guard outside, anxious for both sides to be away from this dismal place. It seemed to be taking forever for Sam to bring the girls out, though he'd seen and endured enough of the traumas of captivity to appreciate the need to be gentle with these innocents.

Thus he curbed his instinct to hiss at Sam to hurry up, at least as long as the coast remained clear. To ensure which he constantly prodded his hand-link for signs of approaching danger. When the signs came, they were from an unexpected quarter.

Just as Sam was easing the girls to their feet and leading them out, the link squealed, making Al start. Then he looked puzzled and annoyed, "Why bother me with that at a time like this?" he asked the ether.

" _Your presence is required here_ _ **now,**_ _Admiral_." Ziggy told him firmly. " _We have a problem with Security."_

"Then let Security deal with it, dammit. That's what we pay 'em for!" Al threw up his hands in exasperation, though his voice was muted so Sam wouldn't overhear.

" _You fail to comprehend once again, Admiral_." Ziggy's superior tones sounded more than a little impatient, " _Security_ _ **IS**_ _the problem_."

Al shook his head and muttered something about having to do  _everything_ himself. Then, in best poker player tradition, he wiped all expression from his face and turned to Sam with an easy smile.

"Sorry, kiddo, gotta go. They need me to uh, go organize the red carpet for you. I dunno, an administrator's job is never done, eh? Catch ya later, buddy."

With which he vanished, leaving Sam staring after him with a 'here we go again' look on his face.

**Turnpike pub**

Honor looked into the whiskey bottle and found Henry swimming somewhere near the bottom. The stupid waste of space was drunk out of his skull. She felt like hitting him then and there, but forced herself to keep up the façade. With difficulty, she prized him from the barstool and dragged him and his precious package outside, all the while playing the concerned girlfriend. She had half a mind to leave him there to rot, but then she wouldn't get the chance to make him suffer, and she wasn't about to let him off that lightly. Besides, leaving him would be a loose end.

'No loose ends' was her number one rule.

Once outside, she clouted him swiftly round the head, chided him for being too drunk to drive and lay blame on him for everything imaginable, even down to the appalling weather. After a brief debate with herself since Henry was too far-gone to be of any use whatsoever, let alone make any decisions, which he couldn't manage at the best of times – she decided to take his van and come back for her car later. It would be more convenient if she wanted to move any bodies, and his more comprehensive tool kit held a wider choice of potential weapons.

Grabbing his keys from his pocket, she practically threw Henry into the van. Then she gently placed the bag on the floor and took a peek at it's delightful contents, grabbing a crisp note and shoving it down her cleavage, reveling in the feel of it next to her skin.

That done, she drove off at breakneck speed. She didn't know how the old girl had made it to the pub, but she had to figure the luck of the Irish might get her back to the car park. There was no telling how long she'd wait there for the little brats to be returned before cottoning on that they weren't coming.

Then what would she do?

Call Daddy, Honor supposed, but quite possibly the police would be a close second on the list. She was confident the trail would not reach her hideout, but one couldn't be too careful. Who knew how loose Henry's drunken tongue could have got? As she drove, she was thinking of backup plans to supplement her backup plans, in case she had to move out before she'd dispatched all three millstones. If trouble came, she'd be ready. Silently she seethed at Henry for being drunk. It would spoil her fun – dulling his senses to pain and betrayal alike. She'd have to go back to killing the sniveling little tarts first. Give Henry a chance to sober up while he watched them suffer. The shock of seeing what she had in store for them should snap him round pretty quick. And if not, maybe a quick dip in the chilly duck-pond would do the trick. In any case, she'd make sure he was primed and ready for her Machiavellian machinations.

**QLHQ**

Corporal Kincaid had never had cause to enter Control before. Even in his heightened mental state it was an awesome sight and he was distracted from his purpose.

The daemon lurked here somewhere, for it never left its lair, although its influence spread throughout the land. Yet it was not immediately visible. Who knew what powers it possessed? Perhaps it could make itself invisible, or disguise itself as something else. Rusty certainly had the feeling of being watched again.

He didn't see Gushie cowering behind the main control console, he was mesmerized by the giant glowing blue orb that flashed and glittered above him: the daemon's eye? He was spellbound by the walls, which were dripping blue blood. The whole place thrummed with the daemon's heartbeat.

It was almost as if the cave entrance had been the daemon's maw and he'd been swallowed whole. Rusty's resolve was shaken, and fear crept in again. Was he really a match for this malevolence?

He circled the room, the axe still clutched before him – held now like a cross or talisman; his shield raised – a charm to ward off the Evil One.

Gushie barely recognized the Corporal who had so recently saved his life. He was barefoot and covered in blood. But it was more than that – his expression, so wild and distant, was something less than human and more than animal.

Gushie whispered to Ziggy to summon Dr Beeks.

**Wilstead**

Sam had tried the front door. It was as intractable from inside as it had been from without. There was nothing for it but to lead the girls out the way he had come in.

The sisters were naturally agile, but their long period of enforced inactivity had left them stiff. Their exit through the window was a far from elegant affair. They were just picking themselves up and dusting themselves off when Henry's van came charging down the lane, driven by Honor with all the reckless speed of Cruella De Vil approaching Hell Hall.

It was already close enough to cut off their retreat to Connie's car. Before they could be caught in the glare of its headlights, Sam grabbed the girls by the hand and raced them between rows of barns and across to the lambing shed. Once inside, he signaled them to stay close behind him and be very quiet while he kept watch for an opportunity to dash for the safety of their getaway car.

His head throbbed with the effort of quick thinking and he rubbed his eyes to clear the recurrent blurring of his vision.

All thoughts of going Home evaporated like the morning dew. His only concern was to evade the enemy.

He'd had Al to guide him on the way in. Now, he had to try and find his bearings alone. The night was black as pitch, and Tori's lemon nightwear, though splattered with dirt and grime and blood, still stood out against backdrop of the wooden buildings. They would have to ensure that they kept to cover as much as possible and only break across the open ground when they were absolutely certain it was safe.

Sam had left both the cellar door and the kitchen window open. It would not take the kidnappers long to realize their birds had flown.

'Go  _on,'_  he urged silently, 'go inside, both of you. Right in through the door, that's it.'

Honor had taken the duplicate key from her purse and struggled with the lock. She was not making it easy for herself by refusing to put down the carpetbag but she had no intention of letting it out of her sight now that she finally had it.

Henry had taken his time getting out of the van, and now staggered behind her, almost pushing her through the door as he stumbled on the gravel.

"Clumsy oaf!" she snarled, pushing him back outside roughly.

He paused, dizzy, unsure which way he was supposed to be going. For one heart stopping moment as he wheeled round he seemed to stare straight at Sam, who froze. There was a chance his drunken eyes wouldn't focus on them if they kept perfectly still.

As Henry turned away, Sam dared to breathe again, but the delay had cost them.

Honor's shriek of rage told him their absence had been noted and now they were pinned down, unable to escape, as she re-emerged from the building – her face like thunder. Despite her previous resolve, she had dropped the bag.

"They can't have got far on foot. We'd have seen them down the lane so they must be skulking around somewhere." Honor pushed Henry again. "Don't just stand there, idiot. Look for them."

Sam's only edge was that she couldn't know he was there: wouldn't suspect that he knew where to look.

Indeed, the harridan was asking Henry if he'd been stupid enough not to lock the cellar door.

"Course not," he slurred, hurt at the suggestion that he'd neglected his duties, though in truth he was so soused he couldn't recall one way or the other.

Hurling further insults in most unladylike fashion, she stalked off round the outside of the house, searching the shrubbery, instructing Henry to start on the sheds.

Sam cursed to himself that Al was  _never_ around when he needed him - though he knew deep down in all fairness that it wasn't really true. He drew the girls further into the lambing shed and in hushed tones and gestures told them to hide in the hay, which was strewn in abundance throughout. He advised them to split up, to keep very still and quiet – like statues – and to listen carefully for a signal from him to run like crazy. Once on the move, they were to find Connie's car and not stop or look back, no matter what they heard or saw.

They must not stop for  _anything!_

After checking they could not be seen in their hidey holes either side of the door, Sam took up his own hiding place at the far end of the centre arm of the E.

The ceiling was higher here, easier to defend himself. Now the trick would be to get  _both_ villains far enough in for the girls to sneak out behind them.

Henry was getting closer, though his progress was random.

As he passed one of the low black out buildings he hit his head on an old-fashioned oil lamp hanging on a hook by the door. Cursing, he was about to hurl it away when the idea penetrated his sozzled skull that he could use it. The sloshing sound when he'd moved it suggested it was fully loaded. He pulled out a lighter from his back pocket and got it to ignite on the fourth attempt. The casing was cracked, but it sufficed. Holding it aloft, he set off again, though he'd forgotten what he was looking for.

No doubt he'd recall once he found it.

In the meantime his bloated bladder urged him to find a bathroom, but as that would take some time, he made do with relieving himself in the feeding trough.

At that moment Honor completed her sweep of the house and, drawn to the light, came upon Henry. She exploded in a tirade of expletives, detailing Henry's many and varied inadequacies, and pushed him toward the lambing shed, with several slaps and kicks to speed him on his way.


	16. Chapter 16

**QLHQ**

Al, Verbena and Gushie flanked Rusty on three sides. Behind him the Control Room door gaped open, the corridor beyond deserted.

Al had instructed Ziggy to cordon off the area, but to have more Security personnel standing by just out of sight, so as not to antagonize Corporal Kincaid further. So far Al's considerable skills in conciliation, along with Beeks' experience in calming excitable patients, had kept Rusty from using the axe.

They had learnt much from his insane paranoid ramblings, but not how to get close enough physically to disarm him, or emotionally to diffuse him. The air was thick with tension; the nerves of all those present were coiled taut as watch springs ready to snap. It was like a showdown in some Western town – the two sides sizing each other up, each waiting for the other to reach for their gun so the shoot out could begin.

And all the while Time seemed to stand still.

**Wilstead**

Time seemed to stand still as Sam held his breath and waited for the confrontation he knew to be inevitable. He was not worried about tackling Henry – his drunkenness more than compensated for Sam's incapacitation.

The woman, on the other hand, was a different proposition altogether. She was young and fit and strong and determined. Not to mention he could see from her treatment of her partner-in-crime that she had a mean, cruel streak, which made her doubly dangerous. On top of which, no matter how much she deserved it, Sam never had been comfortable with hitting women. It went against everything nature and nurture had instilled in him. This, of course, put him at an even greater disadvantage, for the kidnappers clearly had no such compunction.

Sam would have preferred to rely on his wits to engineer their escape, but he was sorely afraid he'd left the better part of  _them_ splattered on the hotel carpet.

So he watched, and waited, and prayed softly, "Holy Mary, Mother o' God, protect the weans and grant me the strength to see them re-united wit' their Da, Amen." Had he not been keeping so still, he'd have crossed himself, so strong was Mary's influence upon him.

The villains were coming in now, lamp held high as they searched the shadows for the girls.

'Keep coming,' pleaded Sam wordlessly, 'Just a little further, that's the way.'

At the last moment, Henry began to branch off to the left, a drunken lurch rather than a calculated move.

It was now or never.

Sam stood up, deliberately rustling loudly and drawing the attention of both searchers - and the girls - with a whistle.

"Hello," he remarked casually, misquoting the previous night's episode of Dr Who, "Oi'm de Nanny, Oi believe you want t' kill me?" For a moment it had the stunning effect he had intended.

"Freeze. Just like a statue," commanded Honor, once she'd composed herself from the shock of finding the woman there.

To Sam's horror, the girls froze in the act of breaking cover.

Henry was confused, Honor ecstatic.

"That's right. One wrong move, anything, I don't care, I'll kill you and the girls both. Understand?"

Sam knew he only had seconds. He nodded slowly to let Honor think they would comply. Then he calmly told Tori and Shelley-Anne, "Do as you are told poppets. Be good girls – _like Ace!_ " This last was given just the right emphasis.

The sisters were smart: they took his meaning.

He grinned as he saw the girls jump up and dash out like greased lightening, then he turned his attention to his own predicament. He was boxed in – trapped.

"It will be my great pleasure to kill you." Honor was purring. She grabbed the pitchfork she had so longed to use. Just then, she caught a flicker of movement from behind her, and turned to see the girls disappearing into the night.

"After them, you fool!" she shrieked to Henry. "Are you just going to stand there and let them get away?"

"Huh? Course not." He mumbled automatically and stumbled out after the little brats.

In the meantime, Sam had been edging forwards. For a moment it looked as if he too could slip out unnoticed, but it was not to be. Honor advanced on him, making little jabbing motions with the pitchfork.

"I'm gonna skewer you, Irish," she said, her voice dripping with menace, "I'm gonna make you squeal like a stuck pig. And you know what? I am really,  _really_ gonna enjoy it."

Sam didn't doubt it.

Many people had made similar threats to him in the course of his Leaps. Few exuded such pure malevolence as this woman. No matter – so long as the sisters were safely away, he'd gladly take his chances. Even with a fractured skull, he still had a few moves up his sleeve that the villain was unlikely to think Mary capable of. Even so, he'd have been happier if the fight were out in the open, with more room to move - more room to dodge those twin spikes.

She was almost in range.

They began a dance of duck and dodge, thrust and parry.

Sam scoured the gloom for a weapon of his own, but came up empty.

His best chance was to get her to circle round and leave the doorway accessible. He had to be subtle though. She was nobody's fool, and was not about to let him off the hook that easily. Sam gulped as the phrase made him all too aware of the prongs she was jabbing his way.

Her eyes glowed with a sadistic gleam, and with the pitchfork held out before her she looked truly devilish. All the while she described the "exquisite torture" she was going to inflict, in graphic, horrific detail.

Sam swallowed hard and tried not to let it get to him. One bold move at the right moment and he could grab the shaft, wrest it from her grasp before she could strike.

He might have made it, too. Might have disarmed her without even having to ram the handle into her solar plexus, or swing it round to stun her head.

Had it not been for The Distraction.

She was still taunting him with images of what she had in store, and how much she'd make him suffer, so that he'd be  _glad_ to die.

He was still trying not to listen. Then, just as he lunged forward her words must have penetrated his subconscious – for a vision floated before his eyes.

A dreadful vision of his blood-soaked body sprawled in the throes of death.

A vision of such crystal clarity as to be almost tangible.

A fatal vision even more vivid that the one that had plagued his dreams as Jack Stone.

A vision that made Macbeth's dagger pale to the realms of daydreams.

A vision that so startled and shocked him that he miscalculated his maneuver and sprawled at his assailant's feet.

Before he could regain either his feet or his composure, Honor pressed home her advantage with a shriek of triumph. She raised the pitchfork high and prepared to impale him.

As the spikes rushed down toward him, Sam rolled over out of their path. Unfortunately, the proximity of the wall prevented him from rolling far enough, and he was wedged, on his back, in the line of fire. Sam managed to deflect the full force of the downward thrust – nevertheless, one prong still pierced his right shoulder. Though the thick coat absorbed much of its momentum, so that the tine did not penetrate completely, it still went deep enough to make Sam gasp in pain.

The vision flashed before him again, only this time it wasn't his own face he saw.

It was Gushie's.

He saw the Control Room, as real as if he was there - had he been retrieved as promised? – he saw Gushie's bloodied corpse spread-eagled across Ziggy's instrument panel.

He echoed his earlier gasp, and whispered uncomprehendingly, "Gushie?"

His tormentor gave a malicious grin, then chuckled, "Oh, come on, now. You can do better than that, Irish. Let's hear how you scream when I pull it out."

So saying, she braced herself by treading on his right upper arm, and then yanked the pitchfork upwards.

If it had hurt going in – and oh boy, had it  _hurt!_ – it was nothing to the agony of its withdrawal. Yet Sam pressed his lips tightly together and refused to cry out, determined not to give her the satisfaction.

The effort nearly made him pass out.

It was only a keen desire to continue living that kept him conscious.

The trickle of blood became a torrent, and instinctively Sam's left hand flew up to apply pressure and stem the flow.

Something in the movement seemed to intrigue Honor, who licked her lips. She shifted the balance of the weapon in her grasp. Then she flicked her leg around and kicked his hand away, making him wince. Her eyes were darting wildly as if searching for something, but he couldn't tell if it was something physical or just a memory she sought.

Tendrils of torment snaked down his arm and tingled in his fingertips.

He tried to clutch his perforated shoulder again, but Honor warned him sharply of the consequences of such an action, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. For every little disobedience you are guilty of, I'll make those little tarts suffer ten times over."

Sam was about to point out that she no longer had the girls. He hoped to God that she didn't have the girls. Surely the big lug was too drunk and inept to have caught them? Connie would get them to safety, wouldn't she?

Honor clearly thought different.

"Oh, don't you worry. I'll get them back, if it takes all night. Only question is – do I make  _them_  watch  _you_  die, or let  _you_  enjoy what I have in store for  _them_?"

She swung the pitchfork from side to side, as if weighing up the various merits of each alternative. Though she was ad-libbing in parts, she wanted to play this out in true Scorpio style.

Sam offered no preference.  _His_ choice was not on her menu.

"On your feet," she commanded abruptly.

Sam didn't move; was too dizzy and disoriented to move.

So she kicked him viciously in the side. "Come on, get up."

The blow doubled Sam in half, groaning softly. His sluggish brain balanced the effort of rising against the vulnerability of staying where he was.

He decided that at this stage obedience was his wisest option.

However, with his right arm hanging limp and useless by his side, his head and side aching fit to burst, getting up was easier said than done.

Honor prodded him impatiently with her foot.

Finally, he swayed before her, trying to clear his head enough to plan defense, escape, survival, though not necessarily in that order.

"Now turn, face the wall," she ordered.

Sam knew it was foolish to turn his back on her, but did it anyway.

"Come on, put your nose right up against the wood."

The wood smelt damp – for some reason it reminded Sam of Home.

Sam fought to keep his mind on what was going on behind him. Straining hard, he heard the swish of the pitchfork as it was raised again, and barely managed to dodge as she tried to crack his skull again with its handle, which whistled just past his ear and reverberated against the beam. He swung round and tried to grab it with his left hand to disarm her, but she was ready for him and her elbow caught him in the throat, making him gag. While he was still getting his breath back, she was on the attack again, swinging the pole round to knock his feet from under him, so that he crumpled to the floor once more.

Then she kicked him – ferociously, repeatedly - to keep him down, while she repositioned the prongs for another thrust.

Sam recalled suddenly how he'd fought a woman in a barn once before. He seemed to remember she'd been quite a spitfire, but had lacked this harpy's total immorality and capacity for evil.

The thought occurred to Sam that she might have been sent by Lothos to exact revenge for his rescue of Alia. Yet it could not be, for they had made body contact and her form had not altered.

Self-preservation now overcame his qualms about sparring with a woman, but she gave him no opportunity to attack. All he could manage was to evade the worst of the blows, trying to crawl, crab-like, out of range, all the while trying to staunch the flood gushing from his throbbing shoulder.

At last she paused in her attack, though still looming menacingly over him with pitchfork poised, forbidding any real bid for freedom. She bent lower, to be sure he heard, and purred, "Oh no. You lift that hand once more and I won't let you see the girls again. Do we understand each other, huh?"

When he failed to reply, her voice got sharper, and her words were punctuated with renewed blows, "Do…we…understand each other?"

Light headed from loss of blood, Sam felt distant, vague. His grip on reality was tenuous at best. He could barely process her words - much less formulate a reply. His eyes started to roll upward under flickering lids.

Honor laughed, a low growling laugh. She shook her head from side to side and tutted. "Don't pass out on me yet. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Not yet. Not yet. Don't pass out on me yet – you rotten Irish whore. Do we understand each other? If you care what happens to the girls you better answer me. All right?"

That got through, and Sam managed to mumble "Yeah."

"Now listen to me carefully."

She bent lower still, so her face filled the whole field of his blurred vision, and he could feel her bestial breath on his skin.

It made his flesh crawl.

"I changed my mind. I'm not gonna let you see 'em before they die. Slowly – they're gonna die real slowly. I just wanted you to know that. You understand? I just wanted to make sure you knew that before I killed you."

She giggled now with girlish glee. "Goodbye, Irish."

Sam cringed.

"Now, where shall I ventilate you next?" A throaty laugh. "The leg perhaps? The other arm? Or shall I go straight for the stomach?"

She really was having trouble deciding.

Part of her wanted to play with the old girl, like pin the tail on the donkey, and enjoy her squirming as each puncture wound oozed out her life's blood.

Yet she was impatient to see the effect of the stomach wound she'd decided might as well be inflicted on the victim she had to hand, and couldn't bear it if the old trout passed out too soon. To be honest, Honor was surprised that the Irish bitch had held on this long. An unexpectedly worthy opponent indeed.

Then again, perhaps she should wait. Recapture the girls first and make them watch every second of Nanny's suffering. Oh how delicious to have the old girl tormented both by her own agony and by the knowledge that the girls were being forced to witness her brutalization. To see their anguished faces looking on helplessly. Oh yes, that would be a joy to behold. Double the pleasure.

Honor shuddered with the thrill of her imagining. Torture was  _such_  a turn-on!

Maybe just a little piercing to be going on with...

Her moment of indecision was probably all that saved Sam.

For as she stood, with pitchfork held aloft, poised to deliver her next blow, her partner in crime burst triumphantly into the shed, pushing Shelley roughly in front of him and waving the lamp wildly.

"I got one of 'em, honey!" he proclaimed proudly. "She'll soon tell us where the other brat is 'iding." The damp night air had sobered him somewhat, though he was still unsteady on his feet.

A sob from Shelley shook Sam back to almost full consciousness.

Honor, startled by the sudden intrusion, was caught off balance as she spun round to face her accomplice.

The pitchfork flew from her grasp and sailed over her shoulder like a javelin, colliding with the oil-lamp in Henry's hand.

Henry simply stood and watched it fall, mesmerized by the myriad tongues of flame that licked at the carpet of hay round their feet.

Honor shrieked: "Idiot!" and kicked Sam again sadistically to vent her frustration.

This time, however, Sam had the added incentive of Shelley to protect.

Desperation focused his mind and he grabbed Honor's ankle with his left hand just as she made contact with his ribs. With all his rapidly fading strength he twisted, making Honor lose her footing and laying her out more or less at right angles to him.

As she went down, he scrambled up.

In two strides he was out of her range and had reached Shelley's side.

Without a backward glance, he scooped her up in his good arm and ran for their lives, dodging the worst of the inferno and bolting out of the door.

Henry was still rooted to the spot.

Honor was back on her feet, but was boxed in by the rapidly spreading fire. For the first time her rigid self-control crumbled completely and she looked frightened and vulnerable. She called Henry's name, not in anger or condemnation, but as a cry for help.

Henry became aware of her and drew his eyes from the flickering light show.

Suddenly he was stone cold sober despite the heat of the flames, and more decisive than he'd been in his entire life. His true love was trapped and in danger. He would have to rescue her.

"I'm coming, honey. I'm coming to get you."

So saying, he plunged deeper into the burning building, heedless of Sam's parting shout advising him to get out while he could.

Once outside, Sam put as much distance as he could between them and the shed, before the thick acrid smoke clogging his lungs forced him to stop and draw in fresh air.

Shelley was coughing too, so he set her down and checked her over.

Fortunately, her nightwear was flame retardant, and she appeared unscathed.

Sam had picked up wisps of hay in his hair and clothing, and was smoldering in a couple of places. Only the soaking he'd been subjected to on his enforced jog had prevented him from catching alight. A brisk pat here and there soon had him out of danger: for the moment.

Sam – being Sam – was on the verge of re-entering the shed to rescue those still inside. Telling Shelley to stay put, he was on his way when she put out a restraining hand and looked up at him in alarm.

"What are you  _doing_ Nanny? Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me."

"Oi've got to…" Sam started to explain, looking from her pale dirty face to the raging bonfire behind him. At which point common sense reared its head. He still had Tori to find. His first – and last – duty was to the girls. Besides, he was in no fit state for such heroics. It was a close run contest over which was generating the more heat – the conflagration in the shed or the pain radiating from his injured shoulder. Between that and the lingering effects of his head wound, the smoke inhalation and the soaking, topped off by the kicking that had left him bruised and tender, he was in no fit state for much of anything.

Still he hesitated.

A hazy memory taunted him of how terrible it was to die in a fire. There had been a girl about Shelley's age to protect then, too. A very special girl, though he wasn't sure why. He also had a vague recollection of successfully fighting a fire in a barn once before, despite having an injured arm to hinder him. But that had been the longest time ago.

Shelley's hand clutched his arm ever tighter. The sound of her whimper brought him back to the present and he hugged her close.

"It's all right, poppet. Nanny'll not be leaving you again. You're safe now. Are you after knowing where your sister is, by any chance?"

"Sh- she went back to the house." Shelley saw Mary's bemused look and explained the obvious as only a child can, "To get Daddy's money back."

Smiling, Sam helped her to her feet and they supported each other as they turned to find Tori and her treasure trove.

As they got up, Henry staggered from the would-be funeral pyre carrying a limp and lifeless Honor in his arms, and both of them ablaze from head to foot.

Shelley screamed.

Sam immediately shielded Shelley's eyes from the gruesome sight. This time he could not stand by and do nothing. He admonished the girl not to look, and with a kiss to her head and a promise to be right back, he swung into action.

Adrenaline leant him a temporary burst of energy to prevail over his injuries. He didn't approach the human torches directly, but struck out toward the horse trough. Hastily filling a bucket with the tainted water, he dashed to the rescue.

All the while he called out to Henry to lie down and roll on the ground.

If Henry heard, he did not understand.

If he understood, he did not obey.

Henry just stood, holding his beloved as if they had just crossed the threshold of the bridal suite.

By the time Sam reached him, the intense heat had caused Henry to genuflect. His scorched face held eyes that no longer saw.

Sam doused the raging inferno with his water bucket, and then smothered the diminished flames with the heavy coat, which he ripped from his body with painful haste, although he knew in his heart it was much too late.

When, moments later, he had beaten out the last flicker of fire, he lifted the scorched remains of the coat.

Two corpses, petrified into a grotesque statue, met his smoke-stung eyes.

Henry was pitiful, crouched holding Honor on his lap, his seared face uncomprehending.

Honor's face was twisted in a grimace; her whole body as charred and blackened in death as her heart had been in life.

Sam sank to his own knees, barely registering the pain of the bruises from his earlier fall, hoping that - despite all appearances - their souls were not beyond redemption. He said a silent prayer over them, and then - having transferred his keys to a side skirt pocket - he reverently covered them with the coat.

He could do no more.

He knelt there for an endless moment, giving in at last to shock and confusion and pain and horror and sheer exhaustion. Finally, he was able to apply the much needed and long overdue pressure to his leaking limb. He did so automatically, without any outward show of awareness.

It was only when he heard Shelley screaming to her sister to keep away, and to her Nanny to come away from the danger zone, that he gradually roused himself and beat a shaky retreat from the edge of the inferno to where the girls awaited him. Together, the raggedy trio weaved their way around the outhouses to the waiting car, the girls dragging the huge bag and supporting their pale and trembling Nanny.

Connie heaved an enormous sigh of relief as she saw them approach. The wait had been interminable. Three times she had almost left the car to go and look for Mary. It had taken every ounce of patience and self-restraint she could muster to stay put.

And then some.

First she had heard the van roar down the driveway. She'd felt she should go and warn Mary of the bad guys' return.

Her hand had been on the car door.

Then she had wavered, wondering if a quick blast on her horn would be more immediate and more effective. In the end, she had done neither. Partly, it had to be admitted, through fear of her own capture. Yet not solely for her own safety's sake, she was not that selfish.

If taken prisoner, she would be of little use to Mary or the girls. Then again, she remembered those foolish females in the films who acted rashly and made things worse. Mary seemed like she was prepared for almost anything. What if she'd managed to hide from the approaching felons only to have her cover blown by Connie's interference? So she'd slithered down in her seat out of sight and held her breath.

But it was oh so frustrating not knowing what was going on. As she sat and waited she could hear shouting, but could not discern what or by whom.

There had been noises, people running, banging – chaos.

Should she go and help?

The urge to pitch in grew stronger by the second, and she even reached over to get her umbrella, which could also be used as a weapon if so needed. But Connie kept telling herself that she would not be responsible for delaying their getaway by deserting her post. What if they got free, only to be re-captured searching for her? NO, it would never do.

"They also serve who only stand (or sit) and wait."

She'd said it light-heartedly, trotting out the old cliché, but there was only the thinnest line between cliché and Universal Truth. The stakes Mary was playing for suggested to Connie that the line had been crossed.

She sat tight and waited.

Then had come the fire – lighting up her horizon brighter than last month's Guy Fawkes celebrations. Surely the time had come for her to intercede? What if Mary and the girls perished in the flames because she sat back and did nothing?

What then?

How would she live with herself?

This time she got as far as opening the door before conceding the folly of striking out to search for three needles in a burning haystack. Then the thought, should she retreat and gather reinforcements? Send for the cavalry? There was a call box just a short drive down the road. She could call the fire brigade and be back in less than five minutes. The idea had merit, but again it meant not being where she was expected to be. Five minutes could be forever when you're desperate and they wouldn't know for sure she was coming back. They might think she'd turned chicken and made a run for it. Then they'd have to leg it. If they were hurt, it could mean they didn't get away fast enough.

It was too risky.

She never would have believed that doing nothing could be the hardest thing of all – until now.

So it was that when she saw three grubby scarecrows staggering her way, she waited only long enough to be sure as to whom they were, and that they weren't being followed. Whereupon she leapt from the car, sprightlier than her years suggested, and rushed to lend whatever assistance she was able.

It was gratefully received.

Sam found himself – like all the best hotels – running hot and cold, as shock made him shiver and pain made him sweat.

He felt shaky deep inside, and his vision was blurred in the extreme. He was having trouble determining which way was up. He made no protest when Connie offered him a steadying arm and guided him to her chariot.

She took charge.

Introducing herself to the children - so they wouldn't be taking a lift from a stranger - she instructed them to strap up in the back (the bulging bag wedged firmly in the well between them) while she eased Sam into the front passenger seat, fastening his seat belt over his damaged arm with great care.

Sam endured her ministering without a murmur, as if it were all happening to someone else, far, far, away. He knew he was slipping deeper into shock, but found it increasingly impossible to cling to the life raft of reality. He had to have help to be pulled back, but didn't know how to request the bullying he so desperately needed.

It would normally have come from Al without him needing to ask.

He fleetingly wondered why Al had deserted him, but couldn't hold on to the thought. Everything was so vague and woolly, and the abyss was comforting. Down there he didn't have to think about the horrors he'd witnessed or the sporadic bursts of stabbing pain, which exploded like fire crackers in his shoulder. He was even becoming anaesthetized to the soft sobs of the two traumatized children behind him. He needed Al to snap him out of it, like last time –  _last time?_  – but by now he couldn't even recall who Al was, let alone anything more.

Then, just as he was on the verge of being lost forever in the blissful mists of oblivion, reality snatched him back with a sickening jolt. Reality took the form of excruciating pain, which brought tears to his eyes and took his breath away.

-"Aaiieee" howled Sam in anguish.

-"Nanny!" shrieked Shelley-Anne in horror.

-"You leave my Nanny alone!" yelled Tori in anger.

"Sorry," soothed Connie, "I didn't mean t' 'urt 'er like that. I wos only tryin' t' 'elp."

She was back in the driving seat, and had brought out a first aid kit. From this she'd taken a gauze pad and soaked it in iodine. It was the application of this poultice that had raised such a pother in the car.

Though the awakening had been a rude one, Sam was grateful for it.

Connie had begun to withdraw the offending object from his clothing. Sam gingerly closed his hand over hers and planted the pad back on the open wound. With a half smile, half wince, he nodded to let her know he'd keep it there and she slipped her hand away. The movement made his aching neck ache all the more, both from the blow to his head, and tracking up the other side from his punctured shoulder.

"T'anks, Oi needed dat," he nevertheless told her sincerely.

"Yeah, like a toothache," commented his nurse.

"It's uh, its alright, poppets," Sam reassured his charges, though it was clearly an exaggeration, "Nanny's fine now."

"She will be, once I gets 'er to 'orspital," pronounced the Cockney, starting her engine and reversing away from the still raging inferno.

That got Sam's attention even more clearly.

"H-hospital?" he questioned, as if the idea were not a logical one.

Connie glanced at the old lady with concern. She was no medic, but the poor dear was obviously in shock and in need of attention. "Sure, ducks. By my reckoning your tank's gotta be bout half empty already. You needs to go an' make a withdrawal from the blood bank. Not to mention getting a jab. We don't want yer getting blood poisoning now, do we?"

Just what Dr Beckett would advise for the real Mary.

But once again things weren't that simple. Yes, he'd probably lost about 4 pints and needed to stop the flow pretty swiftly if the loss were not to become fatal. Yet a transfusion now could prove fatal in itself. For Sam's blood group, like most of his grades, was A+. Mary's, he knew from her passport, was a B negative. It they tried giving him  _that_ it'd kill him for sure.

Not that he could offer that excuse to his fairy godmother.

"No… hospital," he breathed hoarsely, for the second time this Leap. "Oi've got to get the wee ones home to their Da. Oi made a promise."

"Oh, and how are you gonna do that, eh?" Connie had never been a bigot, but she was starting to believe the stereotype of the Irish being thick as two short planks. She'd never heard anything so stupid in all her life. "How far d'yer fink you'd get down the motorway in that state? You'd kill yerself an' the little uns too, for sure. Nah, I'll look after the darlin's at 'ome tonite, and we'll sort sommat aht tomorrer about getting' 'em back to Daddy. You just worries bout getting' yerself fit an' 'ealthy again."

In truth, that was quite enough to occupy his mind.

Pain was a starving sewer rat, which bit into his shoulder with rapacious teeth and gnawed ravenously at the shreds of his nerve-endings with a tenacity that would not be denied. The bloodletting and the still troublesome head wound conspired to leave him barely conscious and deathly pale. He'd all the nasty after effects of smoke inhalation to contend with too, making it hard to breathe without coughing.

Still, he knew he could conquer it all, given time and rest, and told Connie as much, emphatically reiterating his determination  _not_ to go into hospital.

Connie still felt the old girl was mad to refuse, but had no wish to cause further distress to her or the young girls by arguing about it. So she offered a compromise. "Okie dokie duckie, I tells yer what. I'll takes yer all 'ome wiv me…"

"You're too kind," began Sam.

"Not at all," put in Connie, "You won't be imposing. I've got spare beds wot I keeps already made up and everyfink, ready for when me son an' 'is family come dahn from Shropshire. But if'n you takes a turn for the worse durin' the night, I'll 'ave yer in the 'orspital so fast yer feet won't touch the ground. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," acknowledged Sam, meekly. He understood all right. He'd simply have to make sure that it didn't happen. Even if it meant putting on a brave face and lying through his gritted teeth about how much better he felt.

Not that it would be an easy deception.

As they drove, every knot and pothole in the road reverberated through the chassis and jarred his fragile frame. The temptation to withdraw to a state of insensibility was getting harder and harder to resist.

He whispered to the woman beside him so as not to strain his sore throat or alarm the children, "Oi  _don't_ need the hospital, but Oi  _do_ needs ya to keep me talking, just until Oi can get the bleeding stopped."

"Shock?" queried Connie, equally subtle in tone.

"Nothin' Oi canna handle, wit' a little help from me friends." Sam crossed his fingers that his assertion was true.

That gave Connie an idea.

"Sounds like a cue to me, ducks."

She raised her voice, "How's about it, luvs?" she asked the girls, "Shall we 'ave a sing-song?"

They looked at her as if she were mad. They were holding hands for mutual comfort, and trying hard not to think about the nightmare from which they hoped they had awoken. But this was unreal. Why should they feel like singing?

Connie was not about to take no for an answer.

"C'mon, all together now… 'Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens'…"

Sam managed a genuine chuckle, and added his voice, albeit thinly, "Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens."

After a couple more lines it was too infectious to ignore and the girls chorused with them. By the time they arrived at Connie's house ten minutes or so later, Shelley and Tori were almost relaxed, and even Sam felt that he had regained some measure of control over his condition.


	17. Chapter 17

**QLHQ**

The game of cat and mouse had been going on forever with neither side giving nor gaining ground. It seemed the impasse would last an eternity still. Inevitably something would have to give, but it was anybody's guess as to what, how, when or where.

Rusty was confused.

The daemon's minions were on guard, protecting their Master, as he'd have expected. Yet they made no move to attack him. If they had, he'd have been ready. Instead, they muttered incantations at him, seducing his brain into numbness so that he forgot his purpose. He tried not to listen, to drown them out with words of his own, but he was helpless before them.

He could neither attack nor retreat.

The Hideous One itself kept silent and hidden.

For a time he imagined it skulking in fear, and he felt a momentary resurgence of the Power, the Invincibility. Yet before it had emboldened him enough to strike, the minion's murmurings caused him to doubt himself.

Then he imagined the daemon concealed ready to pounce, to bite his head off with a single snap of its razor sharp teeth. Once more he was paralyzed with fear. He tightened his grip on his shield and raised it protectively in front of him.

Surprisingly, it was this gesture that brought about a collapse of the status quo.

For it was at this moment that Al had been asking, "Why are you doing this, Corporal?"

Ziggy broke silence to offer a hypothesis. "I believe  **I**  have an explanation, Admiral. You may have noticed that Corporal Kincaid – against regulations – has misappropriated the trigger mechanism from the bomb that he removed from Gushie."

"Yeah, so what?" snarled Al, unable to make the correlation.

"You may  _not_ have noticed, as  _I_  have," Ziggy's tone was patronizing in the extreme, "that the casing had been shattered. It is my considered opinion…" which meant 'Ziggy-knew-best' "...that the Corporal has suffered chronic exposure to the chemical within, and his current atypical behavior is as a result of acute mercury poisoning."

Gushie thought, 'maybe that's why  _I've_  been feeling so odd lately, 'cos I got a dose too.'

Dr Beeks thought, 'An examination of blood, hair or urine would confirm the diagnosis, but it certainly makes sense.'

Al thought, 'Mercury poisoning?' and then, 'oh yeah, causing temporary insanity like it did with Isaac Newton, and milliners, who used it in hat making, hence "the mad hatter" in Alice.'

Whether it was something he'd read or seen on TV, or picked up in his studies, or whether it was one of those snippets Sam had dropped into a conversation he wasn't sure.

All three were distracted by their thoughts so did not immediately notice Rusty's reaction to the fact that the Evil One had spoken at last. Filled with a sudden, uncontrollable rage, he lifted the axe and flew for Ziggy's Control panel. Unable to locate the source of the voice, he went for what he saw as the daemon's heart.

Gushie was the first to see what he intended and stepped bravely, foolishly into Rusty's path to defend the computer. "No!" he protested, "I can't let you—"

Gushie realized he was wasting his breath, a whisper in a whirlwind.

Rusty didn't falter; he simply sought to remove the obstacle.

Though he was utterly terrified by the axe-wielding maniac bearing down on him, Gushie stood firm. He couldn't allow Ziggy to be damaged. He felt an almost paternal protectiveness towards her. Not to mention the retrieval program he was sure he'd perfected would be useless without her processing power. They couldn't lose Sam forever – especially not when they were so close to getting him back. Not while he had breath in his body to prevent it.

In the few seconds it took Al and Verbena to realize what was happening, Rusty had already struck a dozen or more blows, slashing Gushie's arms, which he'd instinctively raised to protect his face, hacking his torso and upper legs.

Gushie did not retreat or make any attempt to get out of harm's way; he steadfastly blocked the lunatic's way, doing all he could to protect Ziggy while trying in vain to ward off the hail of blows. He was barely aware of the pain, oblivious to the extent of his injuries. All Gushie knew was that he  _had_  to save Ziggy.

Rusty hacked away at the unfortunate Head Programmer in a frenzy of blood lust, venting on the man all the hatred and loathing he felt for the computer. He paused neither for breath nor in the rhythm of his rampage, 'til at last the Admiral, with the help of a guard he'd yelled for, subdued him with a tranquillizer dart from the guard's gun and pulled him off.

As the guard dragged him away, Al moved forward and gently lifted Gushie from where he'd slumped, contorted over Ziggy's mainframe. Lowering himself to a seated position on the floor, Al cradled Gushie's head in his lap, his face white as the crisp dress uniform that pillowed it.

"'Bena?" whispered Al, a desperate plea.

Dr Beeks merely shook her head sadly.

There was nothing she or anyone could do. Gushie was beyond all mortal help.

She sank to her own knees and gently took his hand, though severed tendons made him unable to feel it.

Tenderly stroking his cheek with her other hand, she spoke softly, "Oh, Gushie, why?"

Gushie looked up with sightless eyes.

He was already far, far away. With a brief shuddered sigh and a loll of his head to one side, he was gone.

Verbena softly closed his eyes and sealed them with a tear.

And so the grim tableau remained for several minutes.

Neither Al nor Bena spoke nor moved to break the spell, as if to do so were to accept what had happened.

They weren't yet ready for acceptance.

Even Ziggy was silent; lights dimmed.

The computer seemed strangely affected by the human's self-sacrifice. All the expensive, complex microchip technology and programming couldn't fathom the logic of it. In the end, Ziggy sought an answer from the other humans, speaking softly, almost reverently, "The carbon based life form known as Gushie has ceased to function. There are no vital signs registering whatsoever. All electrical activity in his brain has ceased. He is beyond repair. This is what you call Death, is it not?"

Al did not reply at once, and when he did it was preceded by a heart-rending sigh. "Yeah, Ziggy, Gushie is dead."

"Did Gushie not realize the consequence of his intervention would be death?"

Al pondered this, looking down at the tattered corpse for a long moment, then at the bloodstained axe now lying idle on the floor. "I guess he probably did, Zig."

"Then I fail to comprehend why he would take such an action."

"Instinct." Al was struggling for comprehension himself. He certainly couldn't explain it to a bucket of bolts, even if Sam had made them capable of getting depressed by the death of Franklin Roosevelt.

Al knew Gushie had devoted more or less every waking moment to Ziggy's well being ever since the computer first came on line. He'd fretted and fussed over it like a mother hen. It was second nature for him to try and protect it – and indirectly Sam – from damage. Whether or not Ziggy would have been any easier for all the king's horses and all the king's men to put back together again, Al was thankful that they didn't need to find out.

Ziggy was inclined to pursue the conundrum further, but Al was either unable or unwilling to elucidate.

The matter was settled by a new demand on their attention.

Ziggy's illuminated panels suddenly flashed rapidly and randomly, a wild tarantella. If such a thing were possible, Al would have sworn he heard the computer gasp.

"What is it, Ziggy?" Al was already rising to his feet, gently easing Gushie's lifeless form to the floor from off his lap.

"Dr Beckett's structural integrity has been breached." Ziggy's voice, which had been most like a husky female of late, now sounded uncannily like Gushie's.

Verbena and Al exchanged uncomfortable glances. This was all too weird.

What the hell was going on?

And what had Ziggy meant by such a strange observation, which had more to do with the techno-babble of Star Trek than to a report from Dr Beckett's brainchild.

"Sam's hurt?" interpreted the Observer, striding towards the Imaging Chamber, his arm stretching out to snatch the handlink from its nest as he passed.

"As I said, he has sustained a puncture wound to his right shoulder, narrowly missing the subclavian artery." Ziggy's normally superior tone was mingled with something bordering on emotion.

Al trudged wearily up the ramp.

It never rained but it poured.

As he was about to enter the Imaging Chamber, he was startled to find Verbena cutting in to block his path.

"Where do you think you're going?" she challenged.

The Admiral made to push her aside. "To Sam, of course," his tone implying the addendum 'you stupid woman'.

Dr Beeks stood her ground, planting a restraining hand firmly on his chest, applying just enough pressure to make her presence felt and looking him squarely in the eye.

"And just how do you think it will help Sam to see you like  _that_?"

She withdrew her hand so that Al might examine his attire. He looked down at his normally pristine white uniform and seemed genuinely surprised to find it stained with deep pink blotches from top to toe.

"You can hardly tell Sam you cut yourself shaving, now can you?" she pointed out rationally.

Al suddenly realized his mouth was gaping open, and shut his jaw tight with a snap. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, his anxiety for Sam overriding all else. Then reason prevailed and he turned on his heels, racing as fast as his legs could carry him to get a change of clothes from his room.

He had his jacket unbuttoned and half off before he'd even reached the corridor.

**Bedford**

Connie settled Sam in a comfortable armchair with the words, "There you go, ducks. Sits down before ya falls dahn."

Sam didn't argue. The journey from the car to the front door closely followed by that across the rolling deck of Connie's long narrow lounge/diner had been as arduous a trek as any he could imagine. He sank gratefully into the soft upholstery.

"You sit tight. We'll soon 'ave yer sorted," promised his hostess, heading for the kitchen to "get the kettle on."

Sam was happy to let her take charge, but was still mindful of his responsibility to the girls. Strictly speaking it was not really past their bedtime. It was only a little over twenty-four hours since they had been taken from the hotel. Yet those hours had taken their toll and the sisters looked as exhausted as he felt.

They had seated themselves on the floor at his feet, heads resting on his knees, seeking comfort and reassurance from the closeness, but sensitive of Nanny's injury and not wanting to hurt her by climbing up on her lap for a proper cuddle.

With his left hand he stroked each of their heads in turn and tutted at the state of their hair, faces and clothes. He chided them gently, as if they'd been playing in the garden and marred their Sunday best, smiling as he exonerated them of all blame.

"Are you two big girls clever enough to shower yourselves while I looks after yer Nanny 'ere?" asked Connie, returning with a bowl of steaming water and a clean towel, with which she obviously intended to cleanse his wound.

For some reason the thought sprang to Sam's mind to be grateful that it wasn't a mustard poultice.

Connie put the bowl on a coffee table beside his chair.

The girls rose obediently to their feet.

"I'll be back in a tick, ducks," Connie promised Sam as she led the girls upstairs, "I'll just sorts 'em out some towels and stuff."

Sam smiled in acknowledgement, and exhorted the children to be good.

Once alone, he somehow managed to divest himself of the twin-set, a maneuver which, though carried out with all due caution, caused both intense pain and renewed bleeding.

Still, pressing his lips together tightly, Sam persevered in order to better assess the extent of the damage. It was not a pretty sight, but having cleaned the wound, Sam could see that it could have been far worse.

At least there was no sign of infection.

Connie returned, telling him she'd found the girls everything they needed, including a couple of her daughter's maternity smocks "to use as nighties."

She was carrying a long wincyette nightgown for 'Mary', which she hastily tossed over a chair back as she rushed to her guest's side.

"'Ere now, yer shouldn't 'ave started wivaht me, ducks. Let me get that for yer." So saying, she took the cloth from him and finished bathing the site of his injury, not missing how he flinched beneath her touch.

"Gawd, that looks nasty. Are yer sure yer don't wanna get it seen to proper?"

"Quite… sure," through gritted teeth. "Oi have every confidence in your skills. You're doin' a grand job, so y'are." Sam flattered her, in order to divert her attention, though in truth, she was treating him quite professionally anyway.

"Would ya happen t'have a needle and thread?"

Leaving her patient once again applying pressure to the wound, Connie went to a padded footstool, which nestled beneath a table in the alcove under the stairs. Lifting the lid, she revealed a sewing box chock-a-block full of everything a seamstress could possibly need. In fact, closer examination would show that the table cunningly concealed an electric sewing machine.

"I'm a dab 'and wiv me needlework as a rule," said Connie with a touch of pride in her voice, "but I ain't never 'ad t'do nuffink like this afore. What colour d'yer want?"

Sam smiled. He knew her flippancy was as much to cover her own nerves as to cheer him up, but it was a welcome relief to the gravity of the situation nonetheless and he appreciated it more than he could say.

"Oi reckon as how it oughta be red, but Oi'll take whatever you have," he responded.

She put a reel of crimson thread on the coffee table and took the needle into the kitchen where she scalded it with freshly boiled water to sterilize it.

Sam was impressed that he hadn't needed to suggest the precautionary measure.

"Brace yerself, ducks," Connie instructed. "This ain't gonna be no beauty treatment."

Indeed it wasn't.

Her fingers were nimble, her stitching strong and even, yet as she sutured the jagged wound Sam's face took on an expression normally associated with sucking lemons. He pressed himself back into the chair, and held his arm steady, as in a vise.

"Sorry I ain't got no anaesthetic," his nurse apologized. "This 'as t' be 'urting like 'ell. Feel free to scream or swear. It'll not bother me an' the neighbours'll understand."

Sam pressed his lips together for a moment; holding his breath, eyes closed in pain. Then he let out a deep sigh.

"No, Oi'll not do dat. Oi've no wish t' frighten the weans again."

"You're a brave woman, Mary, and that's a fact," pronounced Connie, "soon be done now."

At which she deftly finished off and cut loose the needle.

"It ain't the neatest darning I ever dun, but I fink it'll do. Is there anyfink else I can git yer?"

"Not unless you have any tranexamic acid," Sam replied, almost automatically.

"Beg your puddin?" queried Connie, "Wot d'yer want wiv acid?"

" _Tranexamic_  acid," explained Dr Beckett, "is a medication used for hemophiliacs and women with heavy menstrual bleeds, cos it helps t'slow blood loss. Only it rather went out of favor for a while with the advent of the contraceptive pill."

This last he mumbled to himself.

"Sorry, ducks, I ain't never 'eard on it. Still, at least we plugged the leak, eh? 'Ows abaht if I seals it wiv some alcohol?"

"Good idea," Sam concurred.

Connie moved to a white cabinet in the front corner of the room and removed a bottle, from which she proceeded to cauterize the wound.

Once again Sam flinched and shut his eyes against the pain.

"You looks like you could do wiv a dose of this internally." Connie offered.

"No, t'anks," declined Sam sensibly, "but Oi'll take a tonic water if'n you have it."

By now he was  _way_ beyond shock, and burning up with pain-induced fever.

In response to Connie's questioning look, he explained, "It contains quinine. Used to treat malaria, but it'll help here too as a febrifuge."

"I ain't got no idea wot one of them is," Connie admitted.

"A medicine to help reduce fever," Sam explained.

"Ah, good for what ails yer, eh?" Connie obliged, pouring him a long glass of clear liquid, which he sipped gratefully. Connie put a clean dressing on his shoulder and then suggested he should "git aht of the rest o' them clothes and into this cosy nightie."

Sam shrank back from her offer to help undress him. Though his rational mind knew she saw only Mary, still he was embarrassed.

"No, no. You go and check on the weans. Oi can manage," he stammered, his hand subconsciously slipping into his lap to shield his genitalia.

"Ain't no need to be shy, dearie, we're all girls togevver now ain't we? Still, if yer sure, maybe I oughta see 'ow the little 'uns is gettin' on."

"Oi'm sure," said Sam firmly, inwardly refuting her statement on gender and breathing a huge sigh of relief when Connie departed up the stairs.

Not that getting changed was anywhere near as manageable as he'd made out. No doubt Al would have found his wriggles and struggles highly amusing had he been there to witness them. Still, somehow he coped, and by the time the others came down he was decently shrouded in the long-sleeved, full-length, high-necked warm fluffy creation covered in rosebuds and forget-me-nots. He'd left the French knickers on to approximate boxer shorts. With his left hand, he beckoned the girls over to him.

Their clean attire was rather ill fitting, but it would serve its purpose. They crouched down beside their Nanny, all squeaky clean and smelling of primroses, their damp hair glistening in the light. They not only looked cleaner, but calmer, and he soon learned why.

"Guess what, Nanny?" grinned Shelley-Anne, cuddling up to Sam's bruised knees.

"What, Princess?" Sam asked gently. He hadn't the energy for guessing games.

The girls exchanged glances, and then began jumping up and down with excitement.

"Auntie Connie says we can 'phone Daddy," they chorused.

Sam looked round to find their benefactor returning from the kitchen carrying a tray, which replaced the bowl she'd cleared from the coffee table. On it were long tall glasses of milk and huge chunks of layered golden sponge cake smothered and sandwich filled with a dark brown, sticky mass of gooey chocolate icing.

"Me kids always used to call it Yummy cake," she pronounced. "Tuck in."

The girls needed no persuasion, but did dutifully glance up at their Nanny for permission. Getting a nod to go ahead, they were soon taking huge bites that gave them chocolate mustaches.

"Mmmmmnn, yummy!" they mumbled, their mouths full to bursting.

"Oi can see why," laughed Sam, declining a portion himself.

"What's up, luv, feeling a bit Uncle?"

Sam struggled with the rhyming slang, and returned a quizzical look.

"Uncle Dick," Connie expanded, enabling Sam to make the mental translation.

"Now you mention it, Oi do feel a wee bit queasy, but Oi'm not about to redecorate your walls, if dat's what's worrying you," Sam reassured her.

"Oh, I ain't fussed ducks. But I'll bring the bowl back if yer finks yer might need it."

"No, t'anks, Oi'll be fine. Oi'm sorry t' be so much trouble."

"Ain't no trouble, dearie," she assured the old woman. "Now, abaht this 'ere phone call, 'ave yer got the number?"

Sam realized he hadn't. He'd been too preoccupied to memorize it, and the maps he'd got from reception, which had the hotel details stamped on them had been left in the car.

The girl's faces fell as he apologized for his inefficiency, but their hostess was not fazed. She merely checked the name of the hotel and dialed Directory Enquiries. Thus it was that, moments later she was connected with the Balmoral Suite.

"'Ello, Mr. Strickland? You don't know me. Me name's Connie Blackman. I got yer daughters and their Nanny 'ere. They'd like a word wiv yer."

For a moment, Lyle thought it was the kidnappers with further demands, and that Mary had gotten herself taken hostage too. Then reason told him that kidnappers didn't identify themselves, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

It was echoed by the mechanical sigh of an opening door, which Al stepped through.

Sam noted that he was dressed somberly, for him – in black slacks, black silk shirt threaded with gold, and a black leather bomber jacket. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. He looked at Sam and shook his head.

"Ah jeez, Sam, look at the state of you!" Al was torn between horror at how dreadfully pale his friend appeared, how tired and pained, and amusement at how ridiculous he looked in the positively Victorian nightwear, with one sleeve hanging limp and empty.

Al wiped the moisture from his eyes, and tried to pretend that mirth had put it there. Silently, he cursed the Cosmic Director, who had cast him as Sam's protector and then kept preventing him from taking to the stage. It was his greatest fear, his constant nightmare, that one of these Leaps his absence would be the death of Sam.

With a tightly repressed shudder he widened his gaze to focus on the children, vying for their father's attention as they both tried to tell him all that had happened. "They both okay?" Al queried, indicating the girls.

Sam nodded, though the muscles in his neck protested the movement. "They will be," he whispered. Hearing how they spoke of their ordeal, he had little doubt that they would suffer no permanent harm. They were already regarding it as an adventure, though they may well have nightmares for a while, poor dears. Still, children were often far more resilient than their adult counterparts.

"Good," pronounced Al, "Let's go then."

The sooner Sam Leaped out of there, the sooner his injuries would be healed. And that couldn't be too soon as far as Al was concerned.

Sam shook his head.

"Oi don't t'ink so," he declared calmly under his breath.

Al shot him a quizzical look. What could be left to do?

"Don't tell me you're enjoying yourself too much to go, pal, cos I aint buying."

He instinctively raised his hand link, but Sam – for once – provided the answer first.

"Oi got the Da his girls back..." he began.

Al's face said it all, "So? Let's Leap."

But Sam continued, "...Now Oi have t'get the girls their Da back."

"Huh?" Al stepped closer to his friend. It was worse than he'd thought. The kid was delirious.

"Zig-gy!" he challenged, through clenched teeth, wondering how much worse things could get.

Sam was about to demonstrate that, far from being a Senator short of a Committee, he knew exactly what he was talking about, when Connie unwittingly pre-empted him.

Lyle Strickland had been asking – in somewhat critical tones – why Mary had not brought his daughters straight back to London, whereupon the normally jovial Cockney became rather irate.

Virtually snatching the phone from Tori, she blasted him, "The poor woman almost died rescuing  _your_ girls. She's a flippin' 'eroine. How much more do you want from 'er? She ain't goin nowhere til she's 'ad a chance to rest and recover. An' I'm gonna see to it she stays 'ere just as long as that takes. If you woz any kind of a farver, you'd get yerself down 'ere pronto. These little 'uns need a loving parent after wot they bin frew, but I guess you're the closest they got."

Before Strickland could object to being spoken to in that fashion, Sam took the phone and pressed home the point, "She's right, sir," he said, politely but firmly, "The girls need you."

Lyle found his voice at last and butted in, "They sound fine to me. Not that it's any of  _her_ business. Who the devil is she anyway?"

" _She_ is de woman who helped save your daughters' lives. Oi couldn't have done it without her. You owe her a great deal. The least you could do is listen to her. Most fathers in your position wouldn't be able to wait to be reunited with loved ones they'd almost lost."

"Which is why I want them back here. You  _know_ how busy my schedule is, Mary."

Sam was tired and hurting and in no mood for the soft subtle approach. This man was really trying his patience.

"For God's sake, man!" he blurted, "What is more important to you? Your 'precious' meetings or your daughters – who are the most precious, rare and valuable treasures a man could ever have." The words came back to him suddenly and he threw them back at their author. "It's about time you got your priorities right, Mr. Strickland. Would you even have found time to attend their  _funerals_ had they died? There's an old adage you'd do well t' heed – "Time may be money, yet the best thing parents can spend on their children is not money, but time"."

"Here, here," chorused Connie and Al together.

The girls just stood open mouthed.

Nanny had  _never_ spoken to their father like that before. And whilst they'd never thought of themselves as being neglected, the prospect of Daddy putting time with them ahead of dreary old meetings was as delightful as it was unlikely.

Emboldened by Nanny's forthright comments, they chirruped, "Oh  _do_ say you'll come, Daddy.  _Please_ say you'll come."

There was an interminably long silence from the other end of the phone, so that the gathering began to suspect the connection to London had been lost, and were forced to let out a collectively held breath. Then, when it seemed their pleas would never be answered, whether positively or even negatively, they heard a distant muttering.

Straining his ears, Sam could just make out the distinctive tone of the ever-efficient Otis as he attempted to shuffle the itinerary to allow for a detour. Still Strickland hedged and wavered; yet Sam could sense he was succumbing to the temptation of playing hooky for a few hours. The comment about funerals seemed to have struck a nerve.

Sam decided to push his luck still further. "You know, sir," he ventured, "Otis knows dis stuff inside out. Oi'm sure he has every last detail worked out to the decimal point. Oi'd be willing to bet a year's wages he could take over all dose meetings wit' one hand tied behind his back."

"Assuming you still  _have_ a wage to bet," cut in Al with a look that advised caution.

Sam had got into trouble with a similar wager as a butler/manservant once.

Sam ignored him.

Fifty miles south - a mere heartbeat away - Otis enthusiastically concurred with Mary's assessment of his capabilities. Stressing that he meant no offence, and didn't intend to imply that his employer was in any way superfluous, he assured Mr. Strickland that he could confidently guarantee to seal negotiations with no loss of bargaining power suffered by the physical absence of the Head of the Company. He was virtually pleading for a chance to be put on his mettle, to prove he could do so much more than mere paperwork and preparation.

Between them, they kept on wearing Lyle down, little by little, chipping away at his objections until at last he conceded, "All right, all right. Otis can handle the ten a.m. and the two o'clock meetings. We'll come up in the limo first thing and he can drive the BMW back. That way I can give him a thorough briefing en route. But I  _have_ to be back for the dinner engagement tomorrow evening – that one meal could be worth mega bucks. And if there are  _any_ problems, anything at all, you're to call me straight away. Is that clear?"

Otis and Sam both agreed to his terms. No sense losing the concessions already won by holding out for more at this stage. Sam figured if he played it right, the question of Lyle rushing back alone would take care of itself. One step at a time – slow and sure wins the race.

The sisters whooped with delight at the news, and gladly accepted the condition that they go straight to bed now, though they knew they'd be too keyed up to sleep.

Otis promised to organize a change of clothes for them all and other necessities, which he would bring with him, and then in hushed tones thanked Mary for her support, which was as welcome as it was unexpected.

Sam replied that he was more than welcome, and they hung up.

Then, fragile as he was, Sam prepared to resume his responsibilities, "Come on, you two, you heard what ya Da said – time for bed. Oi t'ink you have a big day aheed of ya tomorra. Oi t'ink Oi'll turn in meself."

He gripped the arm of his chair and struggled feebly to his feet, though giddiness threatened to prevent him from maintaining the position.

Ever attentive, Connie was instantly by his side to lend a supporting arm. "Steady there, ducks," she advised, "If yer can't make it up them apples, I can soon fix yer up a bed down 'ere."

The staircase loomed over him like the summit of Everest, but the threat of being sent to hospital loomed even more forbiddingly, so he drew upon the last vestiges of what little strength remained him and hauled his weary butt across the floor to escort his charges to bed.

"That's it, dears," encouraged the Cockney, "Up the wooden 'ill to Bedfordshire. Once yer gets yer lumps o' lead on them weeping willers, you'll be in the land o' nod afore yer knows it."

Tori and Shelley-Anne exchanged bemused looks and giggled. 'Auntie Connie' was funny. They liked her – even if they didn't understand half she said.

At the top of the stairs, they turned right and went to the room already allocated to them.

Connie led Sam to a large bedroom on the left, which contained twin beds, made up with blue and white floral covers. She lowered him onto the nearest and exhorted him to "settle yerself down while I goes and reads the little 'uns a bedtime story." Then, shrugging aside his thanks, she left him alone.

Alone that is apart from his invisible friend.

Sam quizzed him instantly, his tone snide and accusing, "Why'd you change your suit, Al? Blood on your shirt, by any chance? Cut yourself shaving?"

Al's eyes widened, then he quickly looked away, remembering how Beeks had used the same phrase. But what would make Sam say such a thing? And what was he so angry about?

"I didn't desert you for a hot date, if that's what you think. I would have been there to watch your back, kid, honest. Only I was unavoidably detained." That much was pure truth. "We had a slight technical hitch, but it's all sorted out now."

He'd trotted out these lame excuses a hundred times. Lied to Sam about the problems back home to protect his pal from hurtful or alarming truths. Most times, he enjoyed the game – seeing what he could come up with next and how gullibly Sam swallowed it all, hook line and slide-rule. He loved the challenge of inventing new excuses and blaming Sam's Swiss-cheese brain for failing to understand things he'd just made up.

Tonight was different.

Tonight he'd have liked nothing better than to talk over the recent harrowing events with his closest friend – to be comforted by him instead of being the one to comfort and support. To have Sam's wisdom and insight lend some measure of understanding to the madness. To have Sam reassure him that there was nothing more or different he could have done, that he was not to blame for the tragic outcome. But, as usual, he had to bear the burden alone.

Al was not as convincing a liar as he'd like to believe. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and avoided making eye contact with Sam. It was partly guilt at letting Sam get hurt again, but there was more to it than that.

Sam indicated his injured arm, clutched tightly to his chest beneath the nightgown.

"Oi doubt there was anyt'ing you could've done to prevent this, so don't sweat it, Al." he exonerated his pal, sweating enough for the pair of them as his pain induced fever raged on.

Though in truth they would never know how differently things may have turned out with an extra pair of eyes on alert.

This time, Sam  _knew_ Al really  _did_ have a good excuse for his absence. But he wanted to hear it. And he knew Al well enough to know he wasn't going to be told. Not without probing. He was tired of being shut out of Project life – and death. Right now he hated being excluded, even if Al did believe he was protecting the time traveler. It made him feel even more isolated and alone.

Besides, he had to know for certain that his vision had been real, for if not, perhaps it was a portent of the future – Al's future, and could yet be prevented.

"Al, Oi need to know what kept you – no, listen..."

Al had been about to jump in with more denials and excuses.

"Oi need to know what  _really_ happened." He looked right through Al, willing him to bare his soul as he suspected his friend needed to.

"I don't understand. What do you mean? Like I told you…" prevaricated Al. He was really squirming now, looking quizzically at Sam. What could his friend possibly suspect?

"It was just the usual stuff," he assured unconvincingly, "You know how temperamental Ziggy can be." He shrugged his shoulders dismissively, as if that explained everything.

Sam raised himself up on his pillows with difficulty and a grimace, and then glowered indignantly at Al.

"Its no use pretending, Al. Oi  _know_ somet'ing went wrong. Oi  _saw_ it. Oi saw…"

He couldn't say it. He swallowed convulsively. Sam closed his eyes to blot out the image that swam before his face again, almost as vividly as before. He shuddered.

Al's shocked expression added years to his countenance.

"You  _what_ **?!** How could…?  _What_ did you…? I mean…" he stuttered, unable to put his racing thoughts into coherent words.

Sam sighed, and drew his left hand horizontally down across his face, pausing to clasp his palm over his mouth for a long moment as if he feared he would scream the house down if he removed it.

Finally, he let it drop and said in a barely audible whisper, "It  _is_ true, isn't it? There was no 'technical hitch'. It  _was_ Gushie. My God, and you weren't even going to tell me!" He rounded on Al now, his shock turning to anger. And in the depth of his emotion, much of Mary's influence took a back seat, the accent fading to allow the real Sam to come through.

"You weren't going to say a single word, were you? A 'slight technical hitch?'

A ' _slight technical hitch?!'_ Is  _that_ how you describe the death of a colleague? The  _murder_ of a friend? How could you, Al? I know you and Gushie had your differences, but I never though you capable of such callousness."

Al was at a loss. How could his time-trapped friend have possibly found out about what had happened in the Control Room? How could he explain? He rubbed his temples and paced the floor.

"It wasn't meant to be callous, buddy," he said at last. "It's just that I can't always tell you…"

Sam broke in, struggling to keep his voice low. "I thought after all this time we'd gotten beyond the stage of secrets, Al. On a 'need to know basis' – I  _really_ need to know, okay? What's going on back there? How many more 'little hitches' have you kept from me?"

For a split second, Al thought of retorting with a flippant answer: 'Nine hundred and fifty seven' or some such ridiculous number.

Instead, he looked away, frustrated and hurt and weighed down by the secrets he  _must_ keep.

"There'd be no point in telling you any of it, Sam. It doesn't matter…"

"Doesn't matter!" Sam exploded, then remembered the need to keep his one sided conversation private. It was just one more injustice that Al could rant and rave while Sam had to curtail his outrage for fear of being overheard.

"Doesn't  _matter!"_ he repeated,  _sotto voce_ , "how can you say Gushie's death doesn't matter? What's gotten into you, Al? I just don't understand this side of you."

"Calm down, Sam, and let me try to explain," coaxed Al, seeing how his friend's ashen face was now flushing with color as he fought to keep his anger under control. This was the last thing Sam needed right now. He looked so fragile, as if a harsh word could snap him in two. Sam opened his mouth, about to rail at Al again.

Al held up his hand, "Please, just hear me out, okay?"

Reluctantly, grudgingly, Sam closed his mouth and nodded.

"When I say it doesn't matter, of course I don't mean that Gushie isn't – wasn't important. Its just – how can I put it?" he paused, head on one side as he pondered. "Well," he resumed at last, "we've discussed before how your changing things here in the past sometimes directly changes our future, right? Domino effect, remember?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully, then his eyes widened. "Like when I helped Diane McBride pass her Bar?" muttered Sam, the glimmer of a memory stirring in him.

"And she in turn helped the Project get more funding," finished Al, prompting Sam to apply this particular to the Universal concept.

He wasn't yet ripe for it, though. "So?" Sam queried, in a tone which implied, "So what?"

"So the future, my present, whatever, is in a state of flux. What you do on one Leap may result in – say – a change in staffing for us." He didn't specify Sammy-Jo – he didn't want to complicate the issue with that particular set of memories. "The next may cause… some other change." He finished lamely - suddenly wary of giving specifics. He couldn't let Sam know that in many of his futures Dr Elysee aka Mrs. Donna Beckett cried herself to sleep in their room, whilst in others he was still the bachelor he believed himself to be.

Sam was tired, Sam was aching both physically and emotionally. Sam had too much of a headache to cope with riddles and cryptic conversations.

"What's your point, Al? Or are you just trying to confuse me so I'll forget that-"

"-No, Sam," Al waved his hand in denial. He looked straight as Sam now, his eyes full of compassion and sorrow and regret.

He suddenly appeared to Sam to be very, very old.

"I'm the  _only_ one who remembers it all, Sam. You know that, don't you?"

He sounded weary, care-worn and profoundly sad.

"Everyone else only recalls the latest version of events, but me and Ziggy, we can trace every change. Every past is as real as every other. It's hard sometimes…" he trailed off.

Al looked as if he might break down and cry, but Sam knew his strict Naval training and the self-discipline that had kept him alive in captivity would not allow him that release.

Sam softened.

He tended to forget, as his Swiss-cheesed brain forgot so much, that  _his_ burden placed a tremendous strain on his friend as well, being there for him, at his beck and call – twenty-four-seven.

"I'm sorry, Al. I didn't mean…"

"I know buddy." Al dismissed his sympathy, which was more than he could bear. 'I'm simply saying that there's no point in bothering you and burdening you with major downers like Gushie, cos three or four Leaps down the line, it might never have happened, see?"

"I guess so." Sam didn't sound entirely convinced but he was prepared to accept the premise at face value for now. Then he drew his breath in sharply as a horrendous thought struck him.

"You're not suggesting Gushie's death was a result of something  _I_ changed by Leaping, are you?"

"No, no, no of course not." Al hastened to reassure his friend. He would have denied it anyway, naturally. Sam didn't need that sort of guilt trip to cope with on top of everything else. But he was glad that he could knock that particular idea on the head with complete honesty.

Sam then insisted on hearing every detail of the circumstances surrounding Gushie's tragic demise.

Al told him as much as he knew, asking in turn how on earth Sam had come to be aware of it.

When both men had related their side of events, it began to make a certain sort of sense.

"I saw Gushie's blood – everywhere," Sam mumbled morosely, still appalled by the clarity of the vision. "It must have been because it seeped into Ziggy's mainframe. I guess somehow his DNA was carried into the matrix, mingled with our brain wave patterns in the circuitry and created a link."

Which, thinking about it, he realized also accounted for the intensity and persistence of the image, since – like Al's hologram – it had become tuned to his optic and otic nerves. Had Gushie had a chance to scream, he'd have heard that too, a blood-curdling cry down the ages.

Unnoticed in Al's hand, Ziggy's hand link winked in confirmation of her father's assessment, and whether by bizarre coincidence or the influence of some supernatural force, the lights formed the shape of the Star of David.


	18. Chapter 18

**QLHQ**

Corporal Ralph "Rusty" Kincaid surfaced slowly from the stupefaction of sedation to find himself under armed guard in the Project infirmary. He was more than a little confused. The medical ward he could believe – he'd been feeling grotty for what felt like weeks, though it was probably only days. And if truth were known, he still felt decidedly under the weather.

It was all such a blur that he couldn't really tell exactly what was wrong with him; it was just a general malaise. On the one hand, he was sure he hadn't been sleeping – yet at the same time he remembered snatches of the strangest, most terrifying nightmares. Nightmares full of daemons - and more blood than he'd have believed possible. But they were only nightmares. They had to be.

Such creatures did not exist in the real world.

So why on earth were there two armed guards in his room? Were they protecting those outside from him – or him from some unknown peril outside? He was not sure which option he would prefer, nor which was the more credible. He couldn't believe he would have done anything to deserve arrest, yet neither was it likely he'd be important enough to anybody to warrant protection of this magnitude.

Even if he  _had_ saved the whole darn project from that bomb.

The bomb!

How could he have forgotten about that?

The shock of remembering caused him to sit upright in the bed – an action that in turn caused the two guards by his door to raise their weapons and take a step forward, bracing themselves for any eventuality. That, and the way the room bucked and rolled, was enough to convince him to lie down again.

Well, at least it solved one riddle.

He was evidently Public -or at least Project - Enemy Number One.

Why was still a mystery - yet he was disinclined to question his captors. They looked as if he made them nervous, and he didn't want to alarm them in case they did anything he might regret.

Like blow his brains out.

He decided his best move would be to go back to sleep. If he was real lucky, he'd wake up to find this whole episode was just another of the nightmares, and he was alone in his own room.

**Bedford**

**Friday**

After Al had finally gone, Sam settled down for some much needed sleep.

Considering the blood loss, and the physical and emotional trauma, he assumed that sleep would overwhelm him in an instant, but instead it proved most elusive. He tossed and turned, haunted still by visions of Gushie and the grizzly tableau of the charred kidnappers.

Some time after midnight, he gave up on all attempts at sleep, and gave in to the emotions that weighed him down. He found himself weeping aloud for the loss of a close friend and colleague whom he was struggling to remember.

He fought forlornly to recapture a memory of Gushie from happier times that would banish the after-image of his slaughter, which burned into Sam's eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. He wept for Gushie, and he wept for himself – cut off from home and family and friends without the comfort of mental memorabilia to sustain him.

The soft sobbing sounds brought his hostess into his room, bearing a box of tissues. She perched on the bed and offered him one.

"There, there dearie," she soothed, patting 'Mary's' hand, "don't take on so. It's all over now. I s'pect yer arm is giving ya gip, ain't it? Y'know wot they sez about no good deed going unpunished!"

Sam sniffed and blinked back a stray tear. Then he blew his nose before answering.

"Matter o' fact, me shoulder feels loike it's on fire, so it does," he conceded, rubbing his collarbone, as Mary's accent reasserted itself, "but dat's not why Oi was crying. Oi'm sorry if'n Oi woke you, Oi was just being a foolish old woman."

He didn't elaborate.

He couldn't even begin to explain the causes of his distress. He could only pray she wouldn't probe too deep. He decided his best option was to take up her cue and play on her ministering angel tendencies. He just hoped he could do so without risking hospitalization.

"Oi don't want to be a nuisance, but could-" he didn't need to continue.

Once again the Cockney made up for her lack of medical expertise with an ample dose of common sense. "-One ice-pack, comin' right up. An' while I'm at it, I reckon you oughta 'ave sommat to drink – replace them lost fluids, eh?"

"Just what the doctor ordered," agreed Sam. Settling back on his pillows to await her return, he realized that he  _was_  desperately thirsty. What  _had_  he been thinking? He should have anticipated dehydration, particularly with the fever that still coursed his veins. His diversionary tactic was no more than genuine need after all. Had she not come in when she did, he would most likely have skipped right past the hospital bed and gone directly to the pine box. He gulped at the idea of two excited children running in to wake Nanny in the morning, only to find she had died in her sleep.

Heavy lids drooped over stinging eyes, black velvet curtains descending at the end of the play. Yet now he fought the weariness that overwhelmed him.

He needed sleep desperately, but his need for fluids was far greater. He could hear Connie bustling about in her kitchen and knew she hadn't been long, but still it felt an eternity. His thoughts rambled – eternity versus mortality: his own and Gushie's.

He rubbed his eyes.

It was pure fancy, of course, borne of morbid musings and febrile imaginings, but he could almost swear he could see Gushie standing beside his bed.

Not a blood splattered specter, but an ordinary figure in a clean white lab-coat. Ordinary, yet unsubstantial – like a badly tuned hologram. The phantasm seemed to be trying to tell him something.

"Gushie?" he breathed, certain he would banish the apparition with his challenge. That sweet reason would outweigh delirium.

Yet far from vanishing, the ethereal form spoke to him.

"Do not grieve for me, Sam," it said, smiling and making a sweeping gesture with one hand that seemed to say 'Look at me, I'm fine.'

Nevertheless, Sam felt a trickle of lachrymal liquid trace a track down his cheek.

"I shall always be with you, a part of you – and the Project" assured Gushie. Sam opened his mouth, but his voice was in another time frame.

The shade bowed its head, as if in apology.

"I thought I had the answer, Dr Beckett. I thought I could retrieve you, but part of the equation was missing. We were asking the wrong question. I understand now, Sam. I understand it all so clearly now. Don't lose faith. You  _will_  get home one day, when the Time is right. You just have to believe, and God's grace will lead you Home."

So saying, Gushie faded away, leaving Sam staring after him, numb with shock, a hundred questions frozen on his tongue.

Moments later, he was startled to find the same space occupied by Connie, who placed a tray on his bedside table.

She looked at him in alarm, noticing the increased pallor, the vacant expression, and the sweat-stained brow. 'This woman really should be in a hospital,' she thought, but hadn't the heart to drag her from her bed. So instead she applied the ice pack and handed him a glass containing a cloudy beverage, rather than the tonic water he'd been expecting.

"Git this down yer, luv," she ordered, "It tastes foul, but I got some orange juice 'ere as a chaser. It's meant for dickey tummies by rights, but I figured it'd likely 'elp you wiv yer condition too."

Sam's nose wrinkled as he sipped it, but he persevered.

"Electrolytes," he mumbled approvingly, noting the salty taste. He managed a wry grin. "Pure elixir."

His savior never ceased to amaze him and he told her so with renewed thanks.

She waved his gratitude aside with a "glad to 'elp" and fussed around fluffing his pillows and neatening his covers.

When he'd half emptied his glass he sighed and leant back in defeat. The effort was exhausting.

She took it from him and put it on the tray, but admonished, "You 'as t' finish it wivin the ahr or it goes orf. There's a big jug o' orange there if you needs it in the night, but if yer wants any more of the jollop just gi'us a shout an' I'll be 'appy t' make some up. Yer can 'ave a batch every four 'ahrs. I gots plenty an' you ain't t' feel a burden fer askin', you 'ear? If I finds aht in the mornin' that you 'didn't wanna bovver me' I'll 'ave yer guts fer garters an' yer legs fer broomsticks, an'no mistake. 'Ave yer got that?"

She looked sternly at her patient until she elicited a meek "Yes, ma'am" whereupon she smiled indulgently and passed him back the glass.

"Bottoms up! Drink it all up, there's a good girl."

Too tired to argue, Sam did as he was bid. He soon presented her with an empty glass, and looked up child-like for her approval, which she freely gave.

0o0

Next thing Sam knew, he awoke feeling stiff and sore and wrung out.

It was dark outside his window, so he figured he had slept a couple of hours. He was not a little surprised therefore, when Connie bustled in, beaming broadly to find him fully awake and sipping orange juice.

"Well if it ain't our own Sleeping Beauty, back wiv us at last," she chirped.

A glance at the clock on his bedside table told him it was 6:30.

"Oi slept the night?" he queried incredulously.

"All night  _and_ all day dearie," she responded. "It's Friday evening. I'm surprised yer prop'ly awake even now. After all, Sleeping Beauty only pricked 'er finger, an' she slept a 'undred years. That 'orrible woman tried to turn you into the 'ole pincushion, so I reckons you done well to be stirring yer stumps so soon. I bin rousing yer to drink every couple o' ahrs, but you ain't really bin wiv it. Feverish, yer woz, mumbling all sortsa strange fings, but yer seems to 'ave cooled dahn now. I changed yer dressin' agin a while back, an' it seems t' be 'ealing nicely. Wiv a little bit a luck, yer might even gets away wivaht a scar."

Sam's mouth opened and closed like a fresh-caught fish as he struggled to comprehend all he'd been told, and express his gratitude for the dedication of his personal Florence Nightingale.

"'Tweren't nuffink luv." She smiled, with a self-deprecating shrug. "I were glad t' 'elp."

With a pang of guilt, Sam thought of the girls and their father, of his intention to win the businessman over to a more hands-on paternal role. He cursed his lassitude, but as so often of late, the chirpy Cockney was there to exonerate him.

"Don't be so 'ard on yerself. Yer knows wot they say abaht the spirit bein' willin' but the flesh weak. Besides, everyfinks goin' t' plan. They all spent the day at Windsor Safari Park, an' they 'ad a great time by all accahnts. The little 'un, Tori keeps talking abaht being glad the llamas weren't bears, wotever that means. You must 'ave some strange critters in Americky."

Sam smiled, remembering Tori's reaction to the animals on the TV screen. "Has Mr. Strickland left for London yet?" he wanted to know.

"No, 'e ain't," pronounced Connie emphatically, "An' if I 'ave anyfink t' do wiv it, 'e won't be, neiver. I'll go fetch 'im an' between us 'e won't 'ave a leg t' stand on, will 'e?"

Without waiting for a reply, she scuttled out.

An hour or so later, it was all settled. They were not even sure themselves how they had managed it, but Lyle would be staying the whole weekend and devoting the entire time to his daughters.

"It may not be no four-star 'otel, but me 'umble 'ome is at yer disposal." Connie informed him.

Sam thought he'd been in four-star hotels where he'd felt much less welcome, and certainly less pampered. He persuaded Lyle to sample some 'traditional British hospitality', though he may not have been quite so quick to insist had he realized it meant Connie giving Lyle her own room, while she would 'bunk in 'ere wiv Mary.' He blushed at the prospect, but decided it was a small price to pay when weighed against the benefit to the girls of having Dad so close. In any case, things were looking so well under control that he'd like as not have Leapt out by bedtime.

As it happened he had not.

Saturday afternoon found him downstairs for the first time, still weak but obviously much improved by virtue of Mrs. Blackman's ministrations.

Lyle Strickland and his daughters were just returning from a trip to Cambridge, where they'd mixed sightseeing – incorporating places where the Dr Who episode ' _Shada_ ' took place – with some serious shopping. They staggered into the room under the weight of countless bags and boxes, including lavish presents for both Mary and their hostess, who received them with much embarrassed denial of having merited such spoiling.

The girls were chattering and giggling with barely a pause for breath. Lyle was still somewhat detached – uncomfortable with the unfamiliar territory – but he  _was_ making an effort, Sam had to give him credit for that. He hadn't bolted for London and the security of the boardroom. He was genuinely trying to rediscover the joys of parenthood.

That morning, he'd dropped in on 'Mary' and started to open up about his fears and the emotional scars left by the loss of his wife. Admitting to such feelings was the first and most important step in dealing with them, Sam had reassured him. At least he wasn't bottling them up, and shutting the girls out any more.

With each report of Otis' success, Strickland was accepting that part of good leadership is delegation, and consequently he was beginning to relax his stranglehold on all matters relating to the business. He was spending all his time with his children.

All that remained now was to get him to start  _enjoying_ it.

Up to now, Sam pointed out, Strickland had been so busy fearing all the bad things that  **could** happen, and detaching himself as a means of self-preservation, that he left no room to appreciate the good things that  **were** happening. Sam had made him realize that he really didn't know his daughters at all.

He had claimed to know them, of course, but Sam caught him out by asking, "Okay den – what is Tori's favorite color? Shelley-Anne's favorite song?"

Naturally, Lyle hadn't a clue. Had not even appreciated that he had a talented gymnast and a budding pianist in the family. He'd paid for the lessons, but never taken the time to observe the results. Now he was starting to listen, to learn, to discover who they were, what made them tick. Beyond that, Sam was also working towards getting Lyle to share their mother with them. To allow the memories to surface – good times as well as bad. To let them grieve together, and grow closer still through the bond of her love, which would live on in their hearts. To realize that he could let them into his heart without having to push his wife out. To appreciate that they could be a source of comfort, rather than merely a painful reminder.

**QLHQ**

Back in the Waiting Room, Mary was lending a similarly sympathetic ear to Al. She talked with him about the recent loss of Gushie, about the older but deeper wound of Beth's desertion. About things that Al had never confessed to feeling: not to himself, much less to Beeks.

They talked for hours and hours – and the longer they talked, the more Al knew he was going to miss Mary when Sam leaped. He couldn't remember a time when he'd spent so long with a woman without ending up in bed with her. In fact, he couldn't remember spending so long with a woman he wasn't interested in bedding. Not since Dr Ruth - and that had been a completely different ball game, despite their similar intent. Yet he was relishing every moment with this wise Irish woman, even though some of it was harrowing in the extreme. Somehow - with all due respect to Verbena Beeks – during his sessions with the shrink he felt it was just 'therapy' and he could do without it, thank you very much. Yet talking to Mary was therapeutic without seeming to be. He could open up to her in a way he couldn't with anybody else – not even Sam. Perhaps it was because she would be gone soon and would remember none of it. He wouldn't have to face her day after day, knowing she knew the deepest darkest secrets of his soul. So he unburdened himself, as he never thought he could or would.

And it felt good.

Verbena Beeks was well aware that Mary was deputizing for her, and she wholeheartedly approved. Ever since Sam had first Leaped, she'd been trying to get Al to avail himself of her professional expertise. He consistently declined and not always in the politest of terms. He only rarely took to her couch other than for his annual review, and then only after much procrastination. So 'Bena was not at all put out that someone else was doing her job for her. She was just grateful that Al had finally found someone he felt comfortable with and could confide in.

Besides which, she had her hands full with Rusty.

Traumatized was not the word for Corporal Kincaid. He went way beyond that.

Once he'd gotten the mercury purged from his system, the old Rusty had surfaced again, at first only troubled by a loss of memory of recent events.

That they could deal with.

If only it had stayed that way.

Unfortunately it was not to be, and gradually Rusty became aware of the full horror he had unwittingly perpetrated. Knowing his crimes had been committed 'under the influence' as it were did nothing to assuage his feelings of guilt and self-loathing. Even the knowledge that by some miracle Gushie had turned out to be the only fatality did not help. One employee would spend the rest of his life on invalidity benefit, while several others would carry both physical and emotional scars for as long as they lived and it was all because of him.

After three intensive sessions, Verbena was no closer to reaching him than she had been when she started. Indeed, as she emerged from this latest session, she was very, very afraid that Rusty was on the verge of becoming suicidal. She cautioned the guards by his door, and the nurse on duty, to be extra vigilant – not for a repeat of Rusty's hostile behavior for she was convinced that all such tendencies had evaporated with the last traces of mercury from his bloodstream – but rather for any signs of an attempt to inflict harm upon himself.

He was still refusing to see Patti too, which made  _her_  Dr Beeks next port of call.

It was not every day -Thank the Lord - that a girl found out her loving; caring fiancé was an axe-wielding murderer.

She had not taken it very well.

Yet after the initial shock had worn off and they had explained that he had been suffering a form of mental illness over which he had little or no control – much as she had suspected – she had wanted to stand by him, no matter what the consequences proved to be.

His seeming rejection of her support was harder for her to cope with than the knowledge of what he had been capable of.

Bena sighed wearily and wished she could enlist Mary's help on a more permanent basis. The lady may be untrained, but she was a very good listener, and her common-sense advice and kind words were every bit as effective as the trite phrases and stock solutions Dr Beeks found herself trotting out all too often of late. She regularly felt that there was not enough of her to go around this curious community, with its intrinsically peculiar set of problems.

'In fact' she thought to herself as she knocked on Patti's door, 'I wouldn't mind a session with Mary myself before she leaves, but I don't suppose I shall be able to make the time.' With a rueful shake of her head, she squared her shoulders and marched in to her next house call.

**Bedford**

In anticipation of Sam's sure to be imminent departure, Al dropped in to check on his friend.

He was once more dressed in outrageous splendor. Though finer in texture, his suit was the color of a green baize card table, in perfect counterpoint to the waistcoat, which was scattered liberally with playing cards arranged in winning poker hands, interspersed with piles of casino chips. His cufflinks were a pair of dice. In stark contrast to his last appearance, he was grinning broadly and looking thoroughly relaxed.

More so than Sam had seen him in a very long time.

"Whatever you're on, Oi'll have two!" Sam told him with a smile. He was sitting in the easy chair once more, with a tray table over his lap.

Connie, Lyle and the girls were sitting round the dining table. All had plates piled high with spaghetti Bolognese. The children were giggling as they struggled to suck up wriggling worms of pasta. Their father was not yet relaxed enough to join in, but at least he was not scolding or disapproving.

Connie was demonstrating how to manipulate the slippery substance with a twist of the fork.

Sam's portion she had thoughtfully cut into short strips, enabling him to eat one-handed with a soupspoon as he watched the girls' efforts with indulgent amusement.

Al, of course, called him a cheat and a traitor, and offered his own advice as to how it should be done with true Italian flair – advice that naturally fell on deaf ears.

Sam chided him for not bringing more useful information, which led Al to wipe the smile from his face, almost literally. He'd been certain that Sam had only been hanging around in '88 in order to give him a chance to spend time with Mary. He could think of no reason for his friend to stick around any longer.

Unless of course the incident with Gushie had done more to Ziggy than they'd realized and Sam couldn't Leap. Which would mean he'd be stuck as Mary McGillicuddy for the rest of their lives. It didn't bear thinking about. Much as Al liked having Mary around at the Project, he wouldn't want to have her replace Sam permanently.

And the idea of Sam spending the rest of his days as a Nanny – and the rest of his nights in Victorian nightgowns – was too awful to contemplate. Al started pushing panic buttons; Ziggy squealed in protest and Al shook the hand link before giving it a hefty whack on the side.

Al began pacing the floor, muttering to himself and cursing the computer in his frustration.

Sam knew better than to question him at this stage. It was a waste of energy and just increased his own feelings of helplessness and annoyance. He may as well just sit back and ride it out, and hope that by the end of the mime Al would have wrung something useful out of the computer. Sam turned his attention to his more solid roommates.

By this time they had finished eating and Connie had cleared away, leaving Sam to complete his meal at his own more leisurely pace. Moving to more comfortable positions on the sofa and easy chairs, the group had settled down in front of Connie's TV, where they had just managed to catch the opening credits of an episode of Knight Rider.

Connie expressed her approval of David Hasslehoff – "'e's a bit tasty…if I woz a few years younger…" whilst Lyle decided the car could be a real boon to business – "Save a fortune in chauffeur's wages…"

What Sam noticed was that Lyle was sandwiched between his daughters and had slipped an arm around each of their shoulders, without even really being aware of it. For the first time, they looked every inch an ordinary loving family, and it warmed his heart.

Perhaps it  _was_ almost time to Leap.

Al soon shattered that illusion. He finally got an answer of sorts from Ziggy, but as usual it was not much help.

"Ziggy is now saying there's something else you gotta do, Sam. Only no suggestions as to what, I'm afraid. Just that the odds are eighty-nine point four percent if you don't do it, they're all gonna die before Christmas, the whole family - including Mary. Otis too."

Sam turned back to him, his face visibly draining of what color he'd regained. He'd saved the girls once. Things were going so well. What on earth could this new crisis be?

"Ziggy must have  _some_ idea what it is," he pleaded, "What's the new History?"

Fortunately, the rest of the group was too engrossed in the adventures of Michael Knight to notice Mary talking softly to herself.

In a moment of near despair, Michael was remembering how Devon kept telling him: "One man  _can_ make a difference."

Al shot the Leaper a telling look, and then gave his full attention back to their secret conversation.

"That's just it," he replied, prodding the hand link mercilessly, "Ziggy won't say. I'm sure she knows – something – but the useless pile of fairy lights won't cough up a single clue." Each word was punctuated by a new jab at the assorted buttons on the com-link, but to no avail. "She just keeps harping on about wider implications and ripples in the time frame turning into tidal waves. I think she's  _way_ overdue for brain surgery, if you know what I mean."

Al made a gesture suggesting there were a few circuits he'd personally like to rip out. "I know you had to give the darned thing an ego for it to work the way you wanted, Sam," Al went on to accuse, "but did you have to make it one as big as all outdoors? Sometimes that smug, self-satisfied 'I know it all but I'm not telling' attitude can  _really_ get on a body's nerves."

Sam concurred.

His job was hard enough without having to stumble blindly round in the dark because his brainchild wouldn't play ball. Especially when the stakes were so high.

"Can't you sweet talk her into giving you a hint? Promise her some new chips or something? You're always boasting you have such a way with the women."

"Not this one," complained Al, "she's not that easy to buy. Perhaps she needs a boyfriend."

Sam was about to point out that despite their references, and the vocal range of 'her' audio output, Ziggy was actually asexual, and regardless of the ego, still a machine. Then, overhearing a sarcastic comment leveled at Michael by KITT, the in-car computer, he was moved to say instead, "Oi t'ink Oi know just the fella for our Zig," he pointed at the screen, "She and KITT have a  _lot_ in common, not least their vastly inflated self-opinions. D'you t'ink you could fix them up on a blind date?"

Sam's attempt at humor did not fool Al for a moment. He knew his friend was being eaten up inside with worry. If only the problem was that easy to fix, he'd gladly have played matchmaker there and then.

Once in a while, it would be good to have a problem with an easy fix.

Right now, he could have done with Sam safely tucked up in whatever limbo he went to between Leaps.

Then he'd have time to sort out the mess back home.

Word would get to Weitzman soon about what had happened to Gushie, and to a lesser extent to the others. Heaven alone knew how he was going to talk his way around that one. It was not going to look good at next week's funding review.

Then, of course, there was the question of finding a replacement for Gushie.

It was not the sort of opening you posted in the local rag.

And there was unlikely to be a queue of qualified personnel to choose from. Al had only ever met a handful of people who could do what Gushie did, and all of them were already on staff, covering the necessary 24/7 shifts. All except…

"Why not," Al thought aloud, "he'd be perfect…"

"Huh?" countered Sam, who thought they were still talking about the Knight Industry Two Thousand, "He's fictional, isn't he?"

Al had long forgotten that strain of the conversation.

"Fictional? Who? Dav…?" Al caught himself and coughed nervously. "Gotta go, buddy. Something's come up." With which he bolted through his portal and vanished, leaving Sam more confused and concerned than ever.


	19. Chapter 19

**Martin Luther King Hospital**

**Los Angeles**

  
**Thursday 9th** **January**   


**Early Morning**

The gamble had almost paid off.

David Beckett and the Donahues had sought sanctuary in a crowded bar, which they had reached without incident. At first, they had nursed their drinks and looked nervously over their shoulders every few seconds. As the evening wore on, however, they became more and more relaxed and chatted casually, eventually all but forgetting the terror that had led them there.

Consequently, when they finally emerged from the bar, both men were slightly the worse for beer and were swapping jokes while Caitlin – who'd stuck to soft drinks, rummaged in her bag for the car keys. None of them noticed the figure lurking in the shadows across the street.

Suddenly, there was a split second of bright blinding light as if someone had taken a picture with a high-powered flash. Bill felt a sharp stinging in his side, and a pressure that forced him to take a step back. Then a burning sensation spread through his torso.

He gasped and doubled over.

Caitlin screamed.

David swore.

They all dove for cover, as did the half-dozen or so revelers who were also making their way home.

Surprisingly, no second shot was fired. Ruggiero – for it must have been he – seemed to have decided there were too many witnesses and so retreated.

Whilst David watched to make sure of this, Cat took a look at her husband's injury. He was bleeding profusely and shaking. Cat was shaking herself, but she tried to stay outwardly calm as she tended the wound.

David wasn't even trying to hide his shaking.

But though he was terrified, and feeling all the shock and guilt of realizing that the bullet Bill had taken had been meant for him, he was not allowing himself to be paralyzed by the fear. Nor would he let panic drive him to anything rash. He studied the scene from a safe vantage point between two vehicles, and only when he saw other bystanders breaking cover did he dare to move himself.

At which point he took charge, more decisively than he'd have thought himself capable of being. He helped Cat to get Bill in the back of their new family estate.

"I want to get Bill straight to hospital, rather than wait around for the paramedics to show," he told her. Uneasy about remaining in case their assailant should return, he was also genuinely concerned that his friend should get treatment without delay.

Cat concurred wholeheartedly.

David then took over tending his friend while Cat headed out in the direction of the hospital. Though the experience had sobered them up in a hurry, he wasn't going to risk a DUI charge when they had Bill's health to worry about.

Thus it was that a short time later they arrived at MLK.

While they were waiting for Bill to come out of surgery, David found himself once more making a statement to Captain Thomas Maxwell.

"I didn't think they'd drag a Captain out of bed at this hour for a little thing like this," he told the officer when he'd finished.

"I said I'd take a personal interest in your case, Mr. Beckett, and I meant it," Maxwell assured him. "I gotta tell ya, we may have gotten lucky. A couple of witnesses at the bar think they saw Ruggiero bolting after your friend got hit. Recognized him from the news. They got a partial index and a make on the car. My men are following it up now."

"Small consolation if Bill dies," muttered David disconsolately.

"Well at least you brought him to the right place," assured the policeman, "Martin Luther King is absolutely the best hospital in all Southern California for treating gunshot wounds. Believe me, I know. I reckon your pal will be just fine."

David wanted to believe him.

He wanted desperately for Maxwell to be right.

And after all, a cop should know these things, like he said.

He was not that easily convinced though. He needed to see for himself. He excused himself and went to find the doctor.

The news was cautiously optimistic. It was a serious wound – the bullet had penetrated deep and punctured the appendix, which they had been forced to remove. Yet this was the twenty-first century, and techniques had improved enormously of late. There was little danger of infection, and the scarring would be minimal. Provided there were no complications - and in these days of lawsuits, every sensible doctor allowed for the possibility of unforeseen complications - Mr. Donahue could be expected to make a complete recovery.

0o0

Indeed, by the next afternoon, he was sitting up in bed receiving visitors. Cat and David sat either side of him, relieved to see a smile on his admittedly pale face.

"It was my own fault," he asserted, "I couldn't make up my mind whether to zig or zag." Bill was not renowned for his decisiveness; though in truth he had no time or warning to have done either.

Though his friend bore him no malice for it, David still felt guilty that their positions were not reversed. His newfound courage was faltering in the face of the reality that his companions could both have shared his intended fate.

"I'm a dangerous guy to be around right now. I had no right to put you two in that creep's sights like that. Maybe I should make myself scarce – lie low someplace for a while till the cops catch up with Ruggiero."

"An excellent idea!" came a strange yet somehow familiar voice from the doorway, "And I know just the place."

All three turned to stare at the intruder. He was a curious looking man, short and distinguished, with dark hair and mischievous brown eyes, and the most outrageous green suit.

Bill thought he was hallucinating and rubbed his eyes.

Cat looked at him with curiosity and mild amusement.

David stared, open-mouthed.

He blinked, and then shook his head. After which he stood up and took a step toward the stranger, then took a couple of steps backwards.

"I-I-I know you, don't I?" he whispered.

Suddenly he pictured a bare room.

A computer.

This man angry and threatening him: then friendly – playing endless poker games.

Yes – poker games. The suit reminded him of that.

Who  _was_ he?

Somehow David knew that it had something to do with that nightmare time when all this had begun. He wasn't entirely sure if this newcomer was friend or foe, but David Beckett was convinced that he held answers: perhaps to his present predicament as well as to his past perplexity. David was at once both eager and afraid to hear what he had to say.

The man looked surprised - though not displeased - to be recognized. He took a small step into the room, not wishing to alarm his quarry.

"I need to speak with you, Mr. Beckett," he announced softly, "For both our sakes, I need to talk to you  _now_. Alone."

Al twisted his watch on his wrist.

He hadn't bothered to adjust it to local time.

He didn't intend to stay in L.A. long. He had to get back in case Sam needed him in the Imaging Chamber. It was only an hour fast, after all. It would help him to keep ahead of himself. Make sure that he somehow persuaded David of the merits of an instant career change, and that they were on the flight back to Albuquerque that he'd already booked them both on, confident in the ultimate success of his mission.

Shortly thereafter the two men stood leaning on laundry carts in a storage room.

Al was used to such clandestine meetings – David was not, and still did not entirely trust the Admiral, as he'd introduced himself.

David kept one hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

The gesture brought back unpleasant memories for Al, who had cause to wish that Sam's and David's paths, or rather lives, had never crossed on that Leap.

Al shrugged off the thought. He had more immediate worries.

"You're right," he told David, "we  _have_ met before. Your memory of that meeting is probably Swiss-cheesed, and I'm sure you're bursting with questions."

"Swiss-cheesed?" cut in David, who of course had never heard the familiar phrase before.

Al fiddled with his watch again. He hated being so far from base when Sam was mid-Leap. He normally only left HQ between Leaps, except in emergencies. This situation qualified, but he still wanted to get back – pronto.

"Just listen, will ya kid?" he pleaded, "I know I'm asking a lot but I promise if you'll just trust me, I'll be able to explain everything. Only not here and not now."

"What do you want from me?" David was still wary, hand still twitching on the doorknob, but his curiosity was aroused. He also found that for some inexplicable reason, the more he looked at him, and listened to him, the more he did indeed trust this familiar looking stranger.

"I have a proposition which is of mutual benefit," began Al, "You need a place to hide from Guido Ruggiero, and a new position now you've broken up with the boss' daughter…"

David had not even reached this conclusion himself as yet, but put like that, he supposed he would be unemployed in pretty short order. The fact that this little Italian was so au fait with his disaster of a life was alarming though.

"How d'you know so much about me?" David was instantly suspicious again – was this guy working  _with_ Ruggiero?

"I can't tell you that – yet." Al's tone betrayed his annoyance at the constant interruptions, though he could well appreciate how strange this must seem to the other man. This was tougher than he'd anticipated, but he couldn't risk revealing too much about the Project unless he was sure David was going to come on board.

"Please, let me continue," he requested calmly.

David nodded his assent. Though he was not yet getting the answers he sought, the promise that they may soon be forthcoming was enough to keep him on the hook.

"We're in here cos I've come to offer you both employment and a place to hide - the safest place on earth - inside a top-secret government-funded project. You'll be well taken care of, and we'll have the benefit of your considerable computer skills, which, I can personally vouch, are up to the task. Only you have to decide here and now. Without knowing the 'what' or the 'where'.  _If_ you accept, there are several conditions, which you'll understand once we reach your new live-in job. You must tell no one where you are going, or where you are when you get there – not even your friends out there. We'll arrange for you to keep in touch in a way that you can't be traced, but you won't get to see them very often I'm afraid. You must sign this contract, agreeing to be bound by its terms."

He drew a small wad of papers from his inside jacket pocket. "Most importantly, you must  _never_ discuss _any_  aspect of the Project with anyone outside it. Oh and you must agree to be referred to by the nickname 'Gushie' whenever you are on duty. The rest is pretty standard stuff."

He allowed the young man a few moments to peruse the carefully worded documents.

"If you decline, I'll leave now and you'll never see me again. All I need is your word to keep all this," he waved in the direction of the contract, "between you and me and these four walls. This little episode will be just one more mystery in your life. You'll have to take your chances with the terrible twin, I'm afraid; find your own hiding place. If, on the other hand, you agree, by tomorrow morning you'll be safe, and what's more, you'll have your explanations. Everything you want to know – the now  **and**  the then – I promise. You'll understand  _all_  of it."

He labored the point, for he could see in David's face the desperation, the bewilderment, and the need to comprehend. Sam's Leap had caused far more traumatic repercussions than they had realized. This was a rare encounter with a previous Leapee. The marriage and divorce had not been in Ziggy's Leap-end prediction, so maybe there was something there that had put a spanner in the works. Al hoped that all Leapees didn't inherit the sort of problems this guy obviously had. He had to believe they didn't, or Leaping would seem less of a benign undertaking than they had assumed it to be, and no way was Al ready to buy into that, despite Sam's own doubts about his 'arrogance' on his last Leap. It wouldn't make any sense. Nevertheless, he made up his mind to have Ziggy dig deeper into the 'futures' of those whose lives Sam had 'borrowed', just to make sure.

Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to David Beckett. He glanced at his watch again, and held out a pen to his companion.

"Well, how about it? I'm afraid it's make your mind up time, I need your answer."

" _Gushie?_ " queried David, eyebrows raised, this being the weirdest of the conditions he was being asked to accept. He looked at the Admiral's face and supplied the response himself, "I know, I know, you can't tell me until we get there, wherever the hell 'there' is. Okay, 'beam me up, Scotty' – I'm game."

So saying, he re-scanned and then signed the contract on all the dotted lines and handed it and the pen back to his new employer, who smiled broadly and shook his hand,

"Welcome aboard, son." He tucked the contract safely back in his pocket, and gave it a pat.

"If I don't tell you where we're going, you can't let it slip, and your friends out there are safer if they don't know. Say your goodbyes and we'll pop back to your place for a few essentials. The rest of your stuff will be shipped on in a couple of days, including that handsome hot rod of yours. We have a flight to catch." Al patted his pocket again, as if to reassure himself the tickets were still there. He didn't want to wave them about for fear David would catch sight of the destination.

"You've thought of absolutely everything, haven't you, Admiral Calavicci?" commented David, as he led the way back to Bill Donahue's ward. His trusty friends, and with them his godson, were the only things he'd be sad to leave behind.

L.A. held nothing else for him now.

"I'd darn well better have," muttered the Project Director under his breath, and then out loud told David, "You can call me Al."


	20. Chapter 20

**Bedford**

  
**Sunday 4th** **December 1988**  


The unseasonably mild wet weather of the previous few days ended abruptly in a sharp overnight frost. The dawn broke murky with fog, but the faintest trace of a watery sun heralded the possibility of a brighter day to come.

The girls were both up and dressed bright and early, chasing each other round the house with a noisy pounding of excited feet and many squeals of delight.

The din woke Sam, who – though naturally an early riser himself – would not have been averse to a slightly longer sojourn in the land of dreams.

Except that he'd not enjoyed any dreams.

What little sleep his troubled mind had managed had been plagued with nightmares in which were projected a series of grisly scenarios to explain Ziggy's predication of death, mingled with lingering visions of the deaths that he had recently witnessed, both up close and remotely.

Sam sighed and rose reluctantly.

His shoulder ached savagely, and his skull was not much better. He still had no clearer idea what new danger the family faced, so he'd decided his best course of action was to accompany them on their outings. That way he'd be on hand if anything untoward occurred.

Their itinerary had been decided the previous evening.

Emboldened by the progress Lyle had already made, Sam dared to suggest that the father share a story with his daughters at bedtime. The book being Shelley's special edition of  _Masquerade –_  naturally - it having been tucked in among the clean clothes by an ever-efficient, think-of-everything Otis.

Lyle's initial reaction had been anger that the forbidden tome had been smuggled into their luggage. Then a withdrawing, making Sam afraid he'd managed in one fell swoop to undo all the good they'd so far accomplished. Perhaps this was just too painful for him, too soon. Yet it was important for Lyle to understand that he should share happy memories of his wife with his children; that they had not been to blame for her loss any more than he had. Tori's birth may have been the trigger, but she had not asked to be born, and could not be held accountable.

He needed to see that facing up to Rachel's death was not a betrayal of her life; that it was a worse betrayal to lock her memory away and never talk about her – as if she had never existed.

Once more, the indomitable team of Beckett/McGillicuddy and Blackman went into action, refuting every argument Strickland put forward for not complying with their suggestions. Once more he was helpless before the persistent partnership, and ultimately found himself not only agreeing to share the book with his children but to take them the next day to nearby Ampthill Park – the site of the golden hare's burial and subsequent discovery.

"It ain't but 15 minutes drive from 'ere. You can't come all this way an' not go an' see it," commented Connie, when Sam explained the significance of the book to her.

"Me dorter 'ad it," she told them, "Even recognized the sun as being modeled on the pub sign and the antique shop both of 'em in Ampthill – but dismissed it as coincidence cos she reckoned as 'ow nuffink that famous would be fahnd round 'ere. Pity – we could'a dun wiv the dosh. Ah, well, never mind, eh? There ain't nuffink official there to mark the exact spot it woz dug up or anyfink, but yer can see the clues, and the cross, and there's a great view."

Thus it was that after a hearty breakfast, the tourists set off – armed with stout walking shoes, camera and a picnic lunch basket packed brimful of wonderful things to eat by Connie – for the short limo ride to the park.

Connie politely declined to accompany them, on two counts.

Firstly, she didn't want to intrude on a family outing (she included Mary as part of the family, as did the girls). She felt that this 'pilgrimage' should not be undertaken in the company of outsiders. Secondly, "It's a fair ol' climb up that 'ill, and I ain't as young as I used ter was. It's a bit much fer this ol' leg o' mine."

She had three platinum screws in her lower left leg, a legacy from a severe break sustained in a cycling accident when just a newly wed. When the weather was bad, she told them, it "don't arf give me jip."

She also cautioned Mary that it would be an arduous trek for someone in her state of health and she thought the old girl was "pushin' 'erself a bit 'ard" to expect to be able to cope with it.

Sam thanked her for her concern, but assured her he would manage, and that he "wouldn't miss it for anyt'ing."

Though not looking forward to the exertion, he couldn't afford to let the family out of his sight until he knew the source of the danger they faced and how to prevail against it.

To appease his nurse he told her that if the 'mountaineering' proved too much, he could always return to the limo and wait with the lunch.

He  _could,_ but there was no way he would be doing that.

0o0

They didn't go straight to the park; their driver took them first through the historic market town itself. Here, despite the mist, they saw the Old Sun pub and the other landmarks featured in Kit Williams' illustrations, which they carried with them like a route map. It was a curious sight - the long stretch limousine snaking its way through narrow, twisty country roads, and they attracted many a curious stare from the locals.

By the time they pulled into the car park by the football ground shortly after ten, the fog had lifted, leaving a brightening day. The frost was still crisp on the ground, a light dusting of icing sugar on the cake that was the hill before them.

Tori and Shelley-Anne tumbled out of the car and ran ahead whilst Sam and Lyle followed at a more leisurely pace.

They ascended the path just before the tennis courts.

Drawing level with the back fence, the children froze, and Sam immediately tensed in alarm. What danger lurked in this idyllic spot? He hastened to catch them up. They turned and put their fingers to their lips, then pointed into the woods.

Snakes? Surely there were no venomous snakes in England?

Sam approached them with his heart in his mouth, and then stood protectively between them, ready to shield them from whatever danger lay concealed in the undergrowth.

He squinted – what was that movement? Straining to focus, he finally made it out – squirrels!

Half a dozen or more, scampering about up and down the tree trunks and across the woodland carpet – cute fluffy tailed grey squirrels. As his anxiety melted away, he almost laughed aloud, but stopped himself for fear of scaring them away.

The sisters were watching them, transfixed. Sam marveled at their restraint. He would have expected excited chatter and giggles, followed by disappointment as the animals scurried into hiding. Yet the girls made not a murmur, until their father joined them. By which time they were bursting.

"Look, Daddy!" they whispered, almost in unison. "Aren't they lovely?"

Sam thought he caught the man mutter "vermin" under his breath, but aloud Lyle indulgently agreed with his offspring, for which Sam gave him credit.

All too soon the creatures vanished from sight one by one, until the watchers could see no trace of them. Shelley-Anne sought and was given permission to gather a few of the fallen chestnuts that the little hoarders had overlooked. Soon both children had the pockets of their tracksuits bulging like chipmunk's cheeks, and would have prevailed upon Nanny to store still more in her handbag had she not – uncharacteristically – left it behind that morning.

They pressed on with their exploration of the park, shoes crunching on the crisp carpet beneath their feet as they made their way up the incline to a wooden fence, interrupted by a simple cross-beamed stile.

The youngest members of the party bounded over it with barely a slowing of pace. In tweed skirt and sling, Sam was not sure he could traverse it at all, until the new and improved Lyle finally put out a steadying hand to help him.

With woodland to their left, they followed the path that led them uphill to the right, across a wide-open plain toward another wooded area. They presumed Catherine's cross would lie beyond, at a summit hidden by the trees, which – being a mix of deciduous and evergreen - still bore sufficient foliage to obscure their view. The going was slower, even the enthusiastic siblings having to tread cautiously on the uneven ground, scarred with mole hills and craters which doubtless led to rabbit warrens.

Atop the first ridge, they paused to get their breath and their bearings before plowing through the woods ahead.

A tall, dignified looking red-headed woman in her early forties crossed their path, striding along behind a sprightly Border Collie Cross. She was dressed in cream-colored slacks, brown jacket and stout walking shoes, and looked for all the world like a typical English Lady of the Manor surveying her Country Seat. All that was missing was the shooting stick.

Deciding she was probably local, Sam asked her how far it was to the landmark they sought.

She pointed to their left. Turning to follow her outstretched hand, they saw – through a clearing in the trees – an imposing white cross. This, she explained in a Yorkshire accent, was  _not_ the cross they were looking for, but once reached they would be able to see the other one, and with it one of the best views in the region.

Though the target she indicated was now directly ahead of them, she suggested that they retrace their steps and take an easier path, which wound its way through the trees a short way back down the slope.

The presence of a large clump of stinging nettles just beyond the path they had recently traversed was enough to persuade them that she knew what she was talking about. Even from here the view on three sides of them was quite extensive.

Sam could make out in the distance the chimneys of the brick works he had passed a few short nights – a lifetime – ago.

With the promise of better yet to come, they headed off in the recommended direction with eager steps, having thanked their guide and bid farewell with a last playful pat of her ever-impatient dog, Scamp, whom Shelley and Tori had been fussing over as the grown-ups had talked.

The new pathway they now traveled was well worn, and for a time continued to take them downward, through the trees, until they came to a sort of crossroads. To their left they could see the football and cricket pitches that bordered the car park where they'd started. To the right and ahead were wooded inclines. They took the path straight ahead as directed, and as they did so they were startled by the distant horn of a passing train. Undaunted, the girls once more took the lead, racing up the slope at such a rate that "Mary" had to caution them not to go too far lest they get out of sight.

Both he and Lyle were finding the climb made their legs ache, though in fitter times it would not have proved a challenge to Sam.

Almost at the pinnacle of this hill, the path curved round a large clump of trees to the right, and then revealed the first cross they had spied from the previous mound. Closer examination showed this to be a War Memorial – a sword echoed the shape of the cross at the top; a shield sporting three heraldic lions sat proudly at the base of its first support. Below this, gradually increasing in girth, were three further layers of stonework. Two of these were octagonal, with plaques on alternate faces and steps below, in between which were four pillars, two bearing lists of names.

They ambled round the monolith, reading each coppery green testimonial in turn, culminating in the one beneath the sword and shield, which read:

IN MEMORY OF

**SEVEN HUNDRED AND SEVEN**

OFFICERS, WARRANT OFFICERS,

AND MEN OF THE

**BEDFORDSHIRE REGIMENT**

WHO WERE TRAINED AT THE

**AMPTHILL CAMP**

AND WHO FELL FIGHTING IN THE

**GREAT WAR OF 1914-1918**

THIS CROSS IS ERECTED

BY THEIR FIRST COMMANDING OFFICER

**HERBRAND XI DUKE OF BEDFORD**

GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS

THAT A MAN LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND

On reading this last, Sam couldn't help but think again of Gushie. If not for his heroic sacrifice, Sam would almost certainly be trapped here in the past for ever, cut off even from Al, his anchor in Time's storm. Crossing himself, Sam offered up a silent prayer for his own fallen comrade.

Having deciphered all the historical details that were still legible, they made their way on up to Catherine's cross, Tori and Shelley-Anne haring up the hill heedless of the potholes in which Sam turned his ankles several times. As they ran, clouds of white breath billowed from their mouths and the girls laughed at the smoke signals they were sending to the horizon. By unspoken agreement it became a race, and as they arrived at the wooden fence surrounding the monument, Tori sang out, "I won, I won. Beat you by a mi-ile."

"Did not," retorted her sister. "I was right behind you."

They nudged each other playfully, then ran back to fetch the "oldies".

"Hurry up, Nanny. Get a move on, Dad. You gotta see this."

The grown-ups refused to be hurried and idled along despite the persistent tugging on their sleeves.

The cross rose like a beacon before them, reflecting the sunlight that was now bouncing brightly off the still frosty floor. The group stood looking up at it in awe and wonder. The first cross had been an interesting piece of history, and they'd paid their respects to those named, but it was no more to the Stricklands. This one was different: special – personal.

They devoured every detail of its architecture.

The cross itself: with its sharp four pronged tips and the quartered shield beneath.

The base intricately carved in different patterns around its eight sides, below which a message was carved into the chalky stone. So worn had this become with age, that the legend was reproduced on a plaque set in stone at their feet, outside the fence.

The rhyme informed them that:

_In days of old here Ampthill's Towers were seen_

_The mournful refuge of an Injured Queen_

_Here flow'd her pure but unavailing tears_

_Here blinded zeal sustain'd her sinking years_

_Yet freedom hence her radiant banner wav'd_

_And love aveng'd a realm by priest's enslav'd_

_From Catherine's wrongs a nation's bliss was spread_

_And Luther's light from Henry's lawless bed_

_Johannes Comes de Upper Offary_

_Pofuit_

_1773_

This was  _the_ cross,  _the_ site, the actual place where the hare had been buried – in the shadow of this very obelisk. As they stood there, almost reverently, a hint of a tear glistened in the corner of Lyle's eye.

"Rachel would'a loved to see this," he whispered, to the surprise of all present.

Shelley and Tori looked to Mary uncertainly. Daddy had mentioned the taboo subject – Mother - and they didn't know how to react.

Sam merely nodded toward the man indicating they should close in. Whereupon the girls grabbed their father in tight bear hugs and all three wept silently for a while.

Sam stepped back to give them room to grieve, wandering unnoticed toward the precipice.

The view was indeed as spectacular as had been twice promised.

Stopping at a safe distance from the steep drop, Sam looked out admiringly on a seemingly endless panorama of fields and trees, cows grazing, splendid houses peeping up in clusters to lay claim on the landscape, the chimneys of the brickworks stretching up as if to catch the white fluffy clouds that skipped playfully across the sky. A tiny train snaked its way across the bridge below, while from overhead the sunlight glinted on the lake, making it sparkle like polished silver. Sam's sharp black shadow marched before him down the hill, exploring the terrain that was too steep and slippery for him to tackle in the flesh.

He contented himself with a stroll along the rim, surveying Nature in all her glory.

First he went to the left as far as the helpful signpost that detailed the specifics of the view below.

Then back along to the right where he almost literally stumbled upon the brown rock (perhaps it was part of the stonework from the original tower, it looked old enough) on which someone had placed a plaque bearing an extract from the 104th Psalm:

  
**O L** ORD

HOW MANIFOLD

ARE THY WORKS:

IN WISDOM HAST

THOU MADE THEM ALL:

THE EARTH IS FULL

OF THY RICHES

Followed by the verse:

Father Almighty, Wonderful Lord

Wondrous Creator, be ever adored;

Wonders of nature

Sing praises to You,

Wonder of wonders –

I may praise too!

Sam reveled in the temporary solitude, drinking in the peace and tranquility of his surroundings and offering his own silent prayer of thanks for the beauty of the scene before him. To which he added a plea that Shelley-Anne and Tori be allowed to grow up to see many such future scenes.

He turned back to check they were still safe and was well pleased to see all three had retained a closeness he'd not seen before today. He hung back, not wanting to break the magic of the moment, but Lyle seemed to sense him watching and motioned Mary over to rejoin them.

Warm embraces from the girls - and smiles so broad they glistened brighter than the rapidly melting frost - welcomed Sam's return. They needed no words to tell him how well things had gone in his absence.

His own smile broadened in response.

After a few moments, he suggested the girls should take advantage of the wide open spaces to let off some steam and work up an appetite for lunch – as long as they stayed in sight – while he and their father adjourned to a nearby bench for another heart to heart.

Sam wanted to ensure that this wondrous change in attitude on Strickland's part was not merely transitory.

By lunchtime, he was convinced.

They made their way back down to the car park by the more direct route, which though shorter was steep enough to require a tight rein on their momentum. Progress was also slow at the base of the hill, for the uneven pathway by the woods was strewn with crooked tree roots ready to trip the unwary traveler. It was worth it, though, for they were treated to the sight of another whole family of squirrels drawn out by the sunshine to augment their winter stores.

Back at the stile, Sam was impressed to find his employer instantly attentive, helping the 'Nanny' over with a caution not to get her skirt hem caught on the rough wood, without the need for the slightest prompting.

And at lunch, the man seemed positively relaxed in his daughters' company.

Sam was confident that Lyle would never again let the demands of the office take precedence over quality time with his family. The scientist would have been ecstatic were it not for the tragic fate that hung over the group like the Sword of Damocles.

What could the danger be?

From whence would the hand of Death strike?

And how on Earth was  _he_ supposed to prevent it?


	21. Chapter 21

**Bedford**

  
**Monday 5th** **December 1988**  


"I fink you lot ort t' go back t' London." Connie told her astonished guests at breakfast. "Oh, you ain't worn aht yer welcome or nuffink like that," she hastened to reassure them, seeing their expressions, "I just fort you'd be interested in summat I fahnd aht."

Indeed they were.

It transpired that by a happy coincidence, the actual 18ct golden hare featured in  _Masquerade_ was to be auctioned that very day at no less than Sotheby's itself.

Lot 498.

The man who'd originally found it, now revealed to be one Dugald Thompson from nearby Kimbolton, had launched Haresoft – a computer software company, with a game hunting the jeweled hare. Only the company had gone bankrupt and so the liquidators – Peat Marwich – were selling the hare.

"His misfortune is our opportunity," declared Strickland, "I don't care what it costs. We're going to London and I'm gonna buy that Hare for my little girls. My Rachel wanted Shelley to have it, and by God I'm gonna see to it she gets it."

"A new family Hare-loom, eh?" chimed in a recently arrived hologram, causing Sam to all but choke on his toast, and earning Al a "Trust you to be so corny" glare.

Al was both chirpy and dapper, despite the jet lag. It was past Twelfth Night back home, but he still had the Christmas spirit. His suit was Santa-red with white lapels and a broad black belt, the red fedora edged and banded with white and sporting a tiny sprig of mistletoe. His eyes twinkled with impish mischief, suggesting it had been put to good use.

He was munching on a chunk of fresh baked ciabatta.

Sam dared to hope that his friend was the bearer of glad tidings. That Ziggy had relented and was going to tell him what he needed to know. Or even better that the 'infallible' computer would finally admit she had made another mistake and the Stricklands' future was all sunshine and roses from here on.

He excused himself from the table and went upstairs, with a slight jerk of the head to indicate that his shadow should follow him.

Jaunting to the top of the stairs, Al moaned good-naturedly between mouthfuls.

"Aw jeez Sam, give a guy a break, not the can  **again?"**

Sam indulged his friend, turning instead for the bedroom, eager as a kid on Christmas morning. Shutting the door behind him to further muffle the sound of their soliloquy, he turned to Al, "Okay, hit me, what's de good news?"

"Huh?" Al's expression advanced a single notch in the alphabet – from  _a_ mused to  _be_ mused. "What makes you think I got good news?"

"Quit playing games, Al," ordered the Leaper, sitting on the bed, "It's written all over your face. Oi've not seen you so relaxed since…" he trailed off.

Since Gushie died.

He couldn't say it aloud, but may as well have done. The atmosphere clouded over as the unspoken reminder hung between them.

Al's previous good humor had been due in part to securing a replacement for Gushie. Particularly since his brilliant wheeze of getting David to agree to being called Gushie meant Weitzman and Co need never know what had really happened. It would be no problem ensuring 'Gushie's' unavailability on inspection days. He'd still be drawing paychecks, contributing to the dental plan, and having psyche reviews. If necessary, Al would even see to it that David's diet was such that halitosis was still a notable topic of colleagues' conversation.

He had it all worked out.

Not that he would be boasting to Sam about it, of course.

The idea was that Sam's brain would Swiss-cheese again when he Leaped, and as far as he was concerned, David Beckett would be the real Gushie, all neat and clean.

So –as so often before – Al fixed Sam with his best lecherous grin, and led him to believe that his joie de vivre was attributable to a renewal of connubial relations with Tina. She had in fact finally forgiven him, as was proven in the note he'd just received, sealed with the acronym B.U.R.M.A., which in this case he knew to mean "Be Undressed Ready, My Admiral."

Ziggy, he reluctantly informed the time traveler, was still predicting that the entire family group would be wiped off the face of the earth sometime around mid to late December. She steadfastly refused to be more specific, but had now raised the odds to a terrifying ninety-three point nine per cent.

Sam rubbed his aching head with his good hand and sighed.

Despite appealing to Ziggy, swearing at Ziggy, pleading, cajoling, flattering and even thumping Ziggy, they could glean not the slightest hint as to what the danger was, nor how it could be averted.

Only that Sam should help them to make plans for Christmas.

Which seemed like a contradiction when they were supposed to be dead by then.

It was ridiculous, like trying to do a jigsaw where the pieces all looked the same and you have no finished picture on the box to guide you.

"Talk about 'Mission Impossible', eh?" commiserated Al.

"Yeah," agreed Sam, "only unlike Jim, Oi don't get any choice as to whether or not Oi accept the assignment, do Oi?" He was resigned more than resentful, but oh, so weary.

'Would it matter if you did?' thought his friend, looking on sympathetically, 'I reckon you'd jump in with both feet anyway, you poor dumb hero, you.'

"Will Ziggy at least run some scenarios wit' me?" asked Sam.

The reply was guarded – as long as the computer was not asked to reveal anything that might have a major influence on the general timeline.

"For pity's sake, Zig," put in Al, wiping crumbs from his shirtfront, "Anyone would think we're talking global warfare here…" a pause. "We're _not_ , are we?" he paled at the mere thought of it.

The parallel hybrid computer pretended to consider this option, just so she could watch the Admiral squirm, before discounting it as a potential outcome of any action taken or omitted by Doctor Beckett on this particular Leap.

Nevertheless, she insisted that the ramifications of furnishing Sam with too many details, whilst initially appearing to be positive, could ultimately prove devastating to the Future. On this point, the cybernetic seer was unshakeable.

However, eventually - under probing - Ziggy deigned to confirm that returning to London to bid for the Hare was a safe move. Neither the auction house nor the artifact had a direct bearing on the life expectancy of the family. In fact, should Sam secure their survival, then possession of the Hare would greatly enhance their chances of 'living happily ever after'.

0o0

A short time later they were bidding fond farewells to Connie, promising to keep in touch, and pressing her to accept payment for her hospitality.

"It really ain't necessary," she insisted. "You lot ain't arf brought a ray o' sunshine inta me life these past days. It's bin grand 'avin' yer."

Lyle was not used to taking no for an answer, however. After she had thrice refused to take hold of the envelope crammed full of notes he'd offered, he decided on a more devious approach. Whilst her attention was diverted in hugging the girls and popping to the kitchen to pack portions of "Yummy cake" for the journey, he slipped the cash into a Christmas card Sam handed him from a box they'd bought in Cambridge, and hid it in her sewing basket. By the time she discovered its presence, returning it would not only be too much hassle, it would be ungracious.

They also extended an open invitation to come stay with them anytime once they were back in the States. The girls promised to show her the sights and get her to sample all their local delicacies. "Though we got nothing like yummy cake!" they laughed, as the cockney handed Mary her recipe for the treat.

Sam hoped he'd be long gone before he was required to concoct the confection, yet at the same time he prayed that Shelly and Tori would live to pass the secret down to their own children. He approved Lyle's gesture, glad that Connie would not be out of pocket – though Heaven knew no amount of money could ever repay all she'd done. He dared not contemplate how this Leap would have turned out if not for their chance encounter. He even believed now that catching that bus would not have been the preferred option.

Much as he valued Al's help, and always would, it had been wonderful to have a flesh-and-blood assistant on this mission. He only wished she were accompanying them to London, for he could have used her down to earth wisdom in helping to solve the catastrophic conundrum that still prevented his conclusion to this Leap.

He could only hope that GFTW would provide the answer in time.

0o0

Taking their seats at Sotheby's Auction house, Sam cautioned Shelley-Anne and Tori to be still and quiet, lest they cost their father dear in accidental purchases.

Their excitement made it hard to contain themselves, but their behavior was exemplary. No way were they going to give Nanny an excuse to make them wait outside. They contented themselves with a huddled perusal of the catalogue, glancing briefly at earlier items, then poring over every detail of page 58, the description of Lot 498: one ' _18carat Gold and Gem-set Pendant By Kit Williams, 1978.'_

Here they learned for the first time the inspiration behind their beloved book, and that it was expected to raise between three and six thousand pounds.

Once bidding finally began, it soon became clear the price would be considerably higher than that. The offers came fast and furious, and they were surprised to find that one of those who dropped out early was the author/creator himself.

Soon it was between Lyle Strickland and one other, but ultimately Sam's current employer was the more determined, and finally secured the Hare for £29,000 plus fees. When asked to comment on his purchase, Lyle chose to remain anonymous, but insisted it had been a bargain. Truth be told, he'd have paid the full million pound ransom to secure it, and count the money well spent. The look of jubilation and sheer joy on his daughters' faces was worth every penny, and was mirrored in his own countenance.

Their triumphant procession emerged from the auction house laughing.

"I guess this Little Rock isn't such a bad place, after all," pronounced Lyle, holding aloft his booty, his anger at the world finally spent.

This gave Sam an inspired idea.

"How's about we stay here fer Christmas, den? See Santa at Harrods, the works? What d'you say? A proper family holiday?"

"Oh, Daddy,  _could_ we? Ple-ee-ease?" pleaded the girls, tugging at their father's sleeves and looking up with their adorable puppy-dog eyes.

The moment he said yes, a bright white light heralded the arrival of an extremely excited Admiral.

"You did it, Sam, Ziggy says you just did it. Whatever did you say to them?"

"Christmas in London," muttered a confused but relieved Sam. "What's so important about dat?"

Feeling the familiar tingle that warned of an imminent Leap, Sam moved in to hug Tori and Shelley-Anne and bid a silent farewell.

Al, meantime, was reasoning with Ziggy that she could finally spill the beans. Sam was not sticking around to effect the major changes the computer feared.

He studied the readout as Ziggy reluctantly released it.

The more he read; the further his jaw dropped.

At last, he understood why his boy-scout buddy had not been made privy to the facts. Sam could never have passed up a chance to save so many lives, and the effect on the time line would have been incalculable.

Sam watched Al's changing expression and his own demanded, "Well?"

"They're safe, Sam. You changed History. The family had been booked to fly back to New York from Heathrow on December 22nd, Pan Am flight 103. Now they stay till New Year. Good work, pal."

Sam was still puzzled, his look now saying: "So what?"

Lyle grabbed him suddenly in a bear hug and declared, "You're the  **real** treasure, Mary McGillicuddy, and no mistake!"

Al had told the real Mary much the same on their last meeting, just a few minutes ago. He was really going to miss her.

A blue aura surrounded Sam.

As the Leap took him, his Swiss cheesed brain cleared momentarily and Sam too understood.

With a gasp he stared helplessly at Al and mouthed a single word before vanishing:

" _Lockerbie!"…_


	22. Chapter 22

**Epilogue**

Whenever Sam Leaped, he was enveloped in a blue haze, which rapidly dissipated, leaving him to examine his new surroundings. While he was in transit, his wounds were healed, but he wasn't aware of time having passed.

This time, the blue stayed, and Sam began to feel he was to be trapped in Limbo for eternity.

oOo

Back in New Mexico, "Gushie" was having a conniption fit.

Admiral Calavicci had warned him that unusual things happened when Sam Leaped, but nothing could have prepared David Beckett for what was happening now.

His first Leap-in, and what a baptism!

"Admiral! Dr Beeks! Anybody!"

Al, Verbena, Sammy-Jo, Donna and a half dozen others burst through the door within seconds of each other, convinced Sam was either Home or Dead.

Or both.

Twenty expectant eyes focused on the new boy.

"What is it? What's happened?" asked Al urgently.

David swallowed hard.

"Wh-what do I do?" he queried, "How, uh what, I mean…" he stammered.

" _What?_ Spit it out, man," roared the Rear Admiral, instantly forgetting all his vows to break the kid in gently, "I take it Sam has Leaped-in?"

"Y-Yes!" David nodded vigorously. Doctor Beckett had Leaped-in all right. Way in. You could even say well over his head.

"Then if  _you're_  not going to tell me what's going on, I guess I'll go have a chat with our new visitor." Al headed for the Waiting Room.

"I-I w-wouldn't open that door if I were you." David found his voice and his motor skills and moved forward purposefully to bar Al's way.

Al turned to glare at him. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of hiring this greenhorn.

"Admiral – you  _can't_ go into the Waiting Room. Ziggy has just flooded it!"

o0o

Sam realized that the azure environment of the Limbo-between-Leaps had actually become a clear blue sea. He'd Leaped in mid-ocean like this once before, and remembered panic and an explosion, but this time he felt instantly calm.

He was swimming underwater, and soon became aware that he was not alone. He was part of a group, swimming close together some way beneath the surface.

Very shortly after that, his ungoggled eyes realized there was something odd about his companions. They were all in grey wetsuits – no, wait a minute - they weren't wetsuits at all.

His swimming partners were not even human – they were dolphins.

_Tursiops truncatus truncatus_.

He was swimming right in the middle of a school of Atlantic Bottlenose dolphins!

They were magnificent.

So beautiful - so graceful.

And close enough to reach out and touch.

It was so peaceful, so serene and wonderful; he wished the experience could last forever. Yet he supposed his air supply would be exhausted all too soon.

Looking down for the first time at his own appearance, in order to check his gauges, he immediately became conscious of the fact that he was not wearing any breathing apparatus.

This discovery intrigued him, yet he was not at all alarmed by it. He felt no discomfort, though he couldn't recall, now he thought about it, having drawn breath since his Leap-in. Closer examination of his appearance showed him to be not only without scuba gear, but also without anything else at all.

He was stark naked. He had not a stitch on.

Next he became aware that the dolphins were conversing in clicks and whistles, all of which he understood perfectly.

He finally comprehended why his blood was still so oxygen rich after long submersion.

Had there been a mirror to check in, he was sure he'd have seen fins where his arms should be.

He, too, was a Bottlenose dolphin!

"Ohboy,ohboy,ohboy,ohboy,oh _BOY_!" he emitted, in one long sonic squeak.


	23. Chapter 23

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost of course, my debt goes to Scott Bakula, Dean Stockwell, Don Bellisario and the whole team who created QUANTUM LEAP and made it such an inspiration.

My thanks also to:

Mrs Seamark, who so graciously allowed me to rewrite the family history of Manor Farm, Wilhampstead, and to take a few liberties with the topography.

Mr Tom Wells of Charles Wells Brewers, for his kind permission to use  _The Turnpike Pub_ , Bedford; his secretary Penny, Mr Eric Jackson of the Architects dept, and long-time customers Charles Laing and Fred O'Neil for their detailed knowledge of the pub as it was in 1988.

Michael Sherrocks of Edwardian Limousine Services, for regaling me with fascinating tales of the Limo business, and setting me straight on the details of "posh hire cars".

Jim at  _Elms_ who took the time to show me an F reg BMW even though he knew I wasn't buying, and for the glossy specs, and his staff for looking after my mother, who'd fallen over.

_Progress Ford_ for the brochures on the Probe.

Local library worker Jane Simmons, for her patient assistance in finding a "kiss with history" and the period maps etc I needed.

Mrs Joy Brodier, for refusing to allow me to use her buying the postcard she sent to Terry Waite, so diverting me to Ampthill Park, and the whole Treasure Hunt element of the story.

Kit Williams for  _Masquerade_ and the Golden Hare buried in Ampthill Park.

Sotheby's Auction House for details of the Hare's sale.

Terence Strong's novel  _Tick Tock Man_ and an episode of Gerry Anderson's  _Space Precinct_ for descriptions of bombs, mercury tilt switches, and how to disarm them.

Harold L Klawans' excellent work  _Newton's Madness (Further Tales of Clinical Neurology)_  not only for his description of mercury induced madness, but for a fascinating read, and his former work  _Toscannini's Fumble (and other Tales of Clinical Neurology)_ for helping us to discover at long last what was ailing my father-in-law. Mark these tomes "Highly Recommended", and you don't even need a brain as gifted as Sam Beckett's to understand them!

Anglia Television for allowing me to bend the scheduling ever so slightly so that Sam could watch  _Knight Rider,_  and the BBC for details of  _Dr Who_ and the newsreaders on the night in question, and for permission to mention them.

Roger Gabriel's  _Patient's Guide to Dialysis and Transplantation_ for the diagnosis of Rachel's condition.

British Telecom for information pertaining to the locations of telephone booths in Bedford in 1988.

Clint Eastwood for running  _Dirty Harry_ against Scorpio.

My husband, David, for the original chocolate coloured dress!


	24. Chapter 24

Writer’s Notes

  
The helpful young lady in Bedford shopping centre is heavily modelled on Emma Fee, my dear friend, erstwhile editor of Quantum Quarterly and committee member of the Leap Back 2009 Convention, who has had the honour of interviewing Scott Bakula on a number of occasions.

Constance “Connie” Blackman is, for the most part, my late mother, who _was_ a genuine Cockney born within the sound of Bow bells, but didn’t _really_ have such a strong accent, unless she chose to ‘put it on’. Her car and house are both as they were in 1988, in every detail but the houseguests (my dear friends Sue J and Mikey have slept in “Sam’s bed” and Mum reckoned she could have made a fortune turning her house into a QL fans’ B  & B!).

The Yorkshire woman walking her dog, Scamp, is my good friend Jenny Ginn, whom I used to work with.

There have been a few changes to road layouts and such like, but it is still possible to follow Sam’s route in this story very much as he did it at the time.

The cinema, as Al comments, was sadly knocked down before a preservation order could be obtained, and is now a supermarket, with nothing but a plaque to mark its passing. Other landmarks and plaques can still be seen, though Cardington hangers now fly little more than weather balloons, and are mostly used by film companies and pop stars as huge adaptable sets.

I guess if this were a “Virtual Seasons” episode, (which it cannot be because this series of stories is firmly pre-MI) I could be confident that MJ would have the integrity to keep all the ‘period’ music intact. If – however – it were classed as an ‘official’ episode, the whole scene in the car between London and Bedford would be made a nonsense on the DVD, since Universal would substitute all the songs with crappy musak! (Just kidding guys, I couldn’t resist the dig.)

Written long before the wonderful exploration of the effects on ex-leapees in the Virtual Seasons stories, this one also takes a look at one leapee who is troubled by ‘lapses in memory’ and ‘missing time’.

The sequel to this story – “Snake in the Grass” – deals with more adult themes.


End file.
